


Spearwort, Iris, and Ash: Spearwort Yellow for Joy

by dredshirtroberts



Series: Spearwort, Iris, and Ash [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Disabled Character, Horse Girl Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Whump, alternate Universe - Soulmarks, attempted accuracy in fantasy medieval politics, descriptions of injuries, gets dark but then gets better, horse gets injured, political machinations, she's fine but she does get injured
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dredshirtroberts/pseuds/dredshirtroberts
Summary: Julian Alfred Pankratz, youngest son of the Viscount de Lettenhove, has it good. He travels the world as a bard, comes home to his loving and supportive family, adores his best friend since childhood, and couldn’t ask for more. When Redania trades him to The Great Wolf of Kaedwen in exchange for peace as a punishment to his father, he’s understandably upset. After a failed escape attempt, he is dragged to the Blue Mountains and the Great Wolf’s keep, Kaer Morhen to accept his fate alongside his childhood friend. But things aren’t all they’ve been made out to be and perhaps this won’t be theworstthing after all.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Male Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion & Triss Merigold, Original Male Character & Original Male Character, Past Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character, Triss & Original Male Character(s)
Series: Spearwort, Iris, and Ash [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061285
Comments: 38
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter one summary:  
> Julian Alfred Pankratz, youngest son of the Viscount de Lettenhove, has it good. He travels the world as a bard, comes home to his loving and supportive family, adores his best friend since childhood, and couldn’t ask for more. So when the king of Redania informs the court that each family would send tribute to the new warlord in Kaedwen who is slowly but steadily taking over the whole of the north, the man known only as The Great Wolf, what has he to worry about but sitting around being bored while old men bicker about their shoes and land holdings?
> 
> Quite a lot, apparently.
> 
> \----
> 
> Welcome to the first story in a series! Because I have no idea when to stop doing Big Huge Projects! :D
> 
> I also promised several people on Discord this first chapter would be up tonight so GUESS THIS IS A THING NOW.
> 
> W A R N I N G
> 
> I write angst. I write dark shit. I like to _b r e a k_ my characters. And your characters. And those characters over there.
> 
> Then i pick them back up with their little tiny pieces and I get out my Non-Toxic safety glue and I paste them all back together again in a lovely little found family/polycule/QPR sort of deal. It's just gonna be a bit before it's okay again and I need you to know that I promise to fix it. But it's gonna hurt. For a _while_. If you need to tap out, I will not blame you. This shit is _rough_ and I get it. But please know going into this story that it Will Be Rough. It will Not Be Happy Or Good for a Very Long Time. The opening to this is going to hurt a lot when I break these boys starting in the next chapter and it Will Not Be Fun (I mean, unless you're into that).
> 
> The tags may change. The relationships will be added to. The character list may grow. The tags _will_ grow. Keep an eye on them and just be mindful of your limits and your personal needs. I write these stories for me, and I just happen to know that apparently a few people want to read this (idk w h y, it's so fuckin sad) but fuck it. Let's do this thing.
> 
> Thank you in advance for reading and for giving this a shot. Sorry this A/N is so long. I love you all and I look forward to making you all cry in the upcoming chapters! :D

Julian hummed a jaunty tune as he paced the halls of his father’s house, smiling as he trailed fingers along the moulding on the walls as he’d done since he was a small child. He was a child no longer, a strapping young man of about five-and-twenty, having just returned home for celebrations with his family for his elder brother’s name-day. He’d spent the past several months on the road, singing and playing his lute for all who might listen. 

Maybe the life of a bard wasn't the most glamorous, especially not for the youngest son of a Viscount, but it was _fun_ and _exciting_ and he enjoyed the adventure, the rush of performing, and didn't think he'd ever stop but for these quick trips home.

He entered the parlour with a flourish, startling his mother who sat doing her embroidery. She set it down at his entrance, a gasp on her lips as a smile grew over her face.

"Oh my dearest little Jaskier! You have come home so soon! Why did you not tell us you would be early?" She half scolded him as he stepped forward into her open arms. Long gone were the days he snuggled up under her chin, tucked within her arms, but he never felt more safe and loved than when she held him close, as she did now. It _was_ a bit different now that he pulled her under _his_ chin, but he had grown past her height many years ago, so he was used to it.

"I sent word ahead but it seems my horse was faster!" He teased as she pulled back, her hands fluttering over his face, hair and clothes. 

She fussed over the length of his hair, somehow both too long and too short to be fashionable, despite what he’d seen across the continent. She disparaged the state of his clothes—these were his _traveling_ clothes, Mama, of _course_ they’re a little worn and dirty. He can’t wear fine things or he’ll be held up by bandits for what meagre coin he makes. (This causes her to shush him with a light thwack of her hand to his billowed shoulder sleeve, telling him not to tell her such things for they are horrible and stories of the road should be saved for the more sturdy constitutions of his brother and father, preferably once she is well out of the way after dinner.) 

He laughs at her fussing and fretting, knowing that of all his family _she_ has the strongest constitution of them all, putting up with the antics he and his brother got up to, the stresses his father brought home from the courts, the politics of being Viscountess, and all other things he could never sit himself down to do.

“Come, come, Julian. Your father and Aleksander are in your father’s office. They will want to see you!” She smiled as she ushered him back out of the parlour and down the hall of the grand house they lived in, servants passing as they strode through the corridor, arm in arm. He regaled her with some of the more _tame_ stories of his adventures around the continent, the people he’d met and things he’d seen that were less visible from the carriages he’d traveled in during his youth.

The doors to his father’s study opened wide to find his father sat at his desk and his elder brother leaning over to read the same business letters and correspondence that his father looked over every day. Both their heads shot up at the intrusion, the Viscount’s face stormy for a moment before he recognized his wife and youngest son. A bright grin spread across his face as he pushed his large wing-backed chair away from the heavy wooden desk and stood, his arms open wide.

“Julian! My boy! You’ve returned,” He said, stepping around the desk to wrap his son in his arms.

“Of course. Can’t miss Aleksy’s name-day celebrations, can I?” Julian said, letting his father squeeze his shoulders tight. His brother rolled his eyes, but his own grin belied his delight at having his brother in the home once more. 

“I hope you at least said hello to Mieczyk when you dropped your horse off. He’ll be cross if you haven’t,” Aleksander ruffled Julian’s hair with a chuckle before yanking his little brother into a tight embrace, shifting it to an arm lock around Julian’s neck to dig his knuckles into the top of Julian’s head. Protests to the undignified treatment fell on deaf ears as Julian’s mother and father laughed at their sons’ antics. They adjourned to the family parlour, requesting tea be sent on their way, so that they could all catch up on Julian’s adventures and he could be informed of the business of the family estate and the politics his brother and father got into.

Julian leaned back on a chaise later that night after their supper had come and gone, their dessert enjoyed, with the fire crackling brightly in the fireplace. They’d been joined much later by several of the closest of their servants, as well as Mieczyk who had been pretty much adopted by the Viscount and Viscountess when he’d arrived with the woman employed as mage to Julian’s father. They laughed and told stories and it felt as though he’d never left home, and he was _happy_.

He couldn’t remember a time when being around his family had been anything but, and he enjoyed being back with them.

* * *

It was breakfast a week later when his father received the letter. 

The clatter of cutlery against plates and the quiet murmurs of early-morning talk halted when his father went pale at the letter in his hand.

He stood abruptly, Julian’s mother saying his name sharply in reprimand for leaving the table before the meal had finished.

Julian has never heard his father say a sharp word to his mother before. He hears it now. He never wants to hear it again.

“Not now, Katarzyna. Boys, with me.” The Viscount said—no, _ordered_ —as he stalked from the room to his office, the letter held tightly in his hand, wrinkling with the strength of his grip as his sons swiftly departed from the table as well, leaving their half-finished meal and their shocked mother behind.

Julian knows why his father is so upset when he hands them both the letter to read.

The letter was a directive from King Vizimir II of Redania, calling all members of his court to appear in the capitol as soon as possible to discuss matters regarding the scourge of the North, the Great Wolf and his horde of Witchers. 

Nought but twenty years hence, the Witchers had been nothing more than monster hunters, taking contracts to save towns from bedevilment by great beasts and supernatural creatures large and small. Frightening men covered in great scars, mutated to fight the beasts they hunted making them little more than beasts themselves with unnatural eyes, super strength and speed, instincts of animals, and—if some of the rumors were to be believed—without souls. 

And now the king of Redania was calling for his court to come together as they determined how best to show their loyalty to this great barbarian warlord taking over the continent slowly from the northeast. Choosing to align themselves with Kaedwen peaceably would be far preferable to being forcibly taken over, and the terms of tribute were the main point of the matter, the decision having already been made by Vizimir himself to prostrate himself before the Great Wolf to avoid his ire. Tribute would be determined, selected, collected and sent to the keep in the Blue Mountains of Kaedwen: Kaer Morhen.

Just the name of the Great Wolf’s lair caused shivers to run down the spine of every good man, woman and child in Redania and the other lands that the Great Wolf had not yet conquered. And it did so now, as Julian turned his face away from the missive, handing it back to his father.

“You will be coming with myself and your brother to Tretogor,” The Viscount’s tone brooked no argument and Julian could only nod. It was unusual for him to be brought along with his father to political business, especially in Tretogor. The youngest son of a Viscount was not generally needed for business or politics, especially with a competent oldest son in line to take his father’s position when the older man would eventually retire his title, passing it on to Aleksander.

So it was that Julian allowed himself to be loaded into the carriage alongside his brother and father, waving goodbye to his mother. Mieczyk and the other servants stood and watched them leave and he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he would never see them all at once again.

* * *

Julian’s anxieties are not quelled by his father’s revelation to him in the carriage that the choosing of tribute was likely to cost their family more than others. Aleksander’s face was grim as he stared out the window of the carriage at the countryside passing them by as the Viscount addressed his youngest son.

“Julian, it is important you know what we are walking into in the courts of Tretogor. Our family holds enough sway that our voices are heard, and I try my best to make our voice one of tolerance and acceptance in the greater scheme of things. And while it is not an unpopular opinion among the other courtiers, it is...less popular with King Vizimir. He has… _often_ informed me that were I to continue spouting progressive stances as I do, that something would come to put me in my place. And I fear that with this new development of an alliance with Kaedwen that my debts are coming due.” 

Julian, like most children, had always thought his father to be a strong, powerful man. One forever youthful and simultaneously wise. And in this moment he saw not the warrior for justice, one who adopted crippled stableboys to keep them from the greater pain of the world, who employed mere hedge witches with the title of mage and house sorceress, one who paid all his workers fairly and treated those who kept his household as family unto themselves. He saw instead an old man pushing sixty, lines on his face and circles under his eyes. Brown hair that matched Julian’s, greying at the temples and thinning at the hairline. Grey eyes—steelier than Julian’s own blue—tired and dull with weariness. Shoulders bowed with the weight of his actions, noble though they may have been, and the judgement yet to come.

Julian tried not to let the fear that he felt swoop through his stomach shake in his voice as he acknowledged his father’s words, “It will be what it is. And we will come out of this stronger for it.” He had seen the story time and again on his travels, sang it in a hundred thousand ballads since his lessons in Oxenfurt. The good and true and noble would always come out on top, whatever the troubles they encountered.

Aleksander’s jaw clenched and his nostrils flared but he said nothing, did not look away from his glaring out of the window of their carriage. Julian’s father dropped his head, shaking it slightly.

* * *

The rest of the journey was silent but for the clatter of wheels upon the road and the sound of hoofbeats as the two horses were urged on.

Lettenhove was situated not far from Tretogor, perhaps a seven hour ride by carriage. Less distance than most had to go in order to get from their great estates on the far reaches of Redania. Lettenhove created a midpoint between Troy and Denesle, equidistant from Roggeveen and Tretogor itself. Roads Julian had traveled frequently as a young lad with his family for holidays and vacations in the different cities and towns as his father met with other politicians and courtiers for business. 

They arrived in Tretogor at sundown, having left at midmorning from Lettenhove. They immediately disembark at the Viscount’s apartments and settle in for the evening. Julian’s father sends a messenger to alert the king that he has arrived in town and will be attending proceedings from here on out accompanied by his two sons unless Julian and Aleksander were barred from attending. 

After a long journey, tense with emotions and things unsaid, all three of the de Lettenhoves went to bed and slept but a few hours apiece. 

* * *

Court, Julian decided, was boring as _shit_.

No, in fact, it was _more_ boring because at least shit could surprise a man—either his own, or coming upon it in the street. Court was just a bunch of old men in finery talking circles around one another and never saying a single thing of import. Julian realized he’d been spoilt with his occasional invitations to play during winter months or for banquets hosted by Countesses and Dukes and other such manner of nobility. Those were fun, and generally ended with him falling into someone or another’s bed.

This was just _dull_.

It was five days since their arrival into Tretogor and Julian leaned heavily on the bannister he was sat next to, cheek resting on his palm as he tried to tune out the droning voices of men twice his age or more bickering back and forth about this, that, or the other thing. He was pretty sure the most exciting thing he’d overheard so far was that the Duke of Montecalvo had ordered new heeled shoes that had come to him finished in the wrong shade of puce. 

“Julian,” Aleksander hissed at him, elbowing him in the ribs, “Sit _up_.”

Julian sighed, but did as instructed, adjusting himself so that he appeared more alert than he felt. Just in time, too, as at that moment a man in bright livery came through the door, casting the whole hall into silence.

“I present Vizimir, second of his name, son of Heribert, first of his name—may his soul rest among the gods—King of Redania!” The herald called into the room, tapping his staff on the ground. The room stood at attention as King Vizimir entered the hall.

The king was...surprisingly normal, Julian realized. He’d never been to court before, hadn’t ever seen the king in person. He’d heard tales of him across the land, knew his policies, and had been caught up on the intricacies of his politics over the past halfweek. His picture graced the halls of the castle, and his profile on the Novigrad Crown in each purse and pocket. 

But before them walked a man who looked...like a man. He was about the same age as Julian’s own father, perhaps a little older. His head shaved bald, his chin brushed by a full beard trimmed close to the jaw with grey hairs speckled throughout like salt and pepper on a haunch of meat. The circlet resting on his brow was simple, silver and bright in the sunlight streaming through the windows of the hall. He makes his way across the floor to the throne at the head of the room and everyone on either side stands until he gestures for them to sit.

Julian feels Aleksander go tense beside him. This...rather plain, to be honest, man in front of them strikes a sort of fear in his brother that Julian hasn't ever seen in the man nearly ten years his elder. Beside Aleksander, Julian's father is still as a statue, face carefully neutral as he looks upon their king. 

A foreman stands to address the king with the business discussed in the past few days and Julian fights to not slump backwards against the bench again. Would this boring prattle never cease? He wished they would just get on with the tribute selection and ease his father's worry and have it all be done with. Then they could return home, celebrate Aleksander's name-day and Julian could leave for the road once more.

Eventually the foreman comes to a conclusion, Julian only paying attention to his tone and cadence and not the words themselves. King Vizimir nods once in acknowledgement and the foreman sits down. 

"Thank you, Lord Tannenbay. We shall address those points further at a later time. Scribe, get those down so we might remember them later." The thin, aged man beside the king nods, having already been scribbling the notes down onto his long length of parchment. "Now for our true business. You are aware as to why we have called everyone here: Redania will ally with Kaedwen and the Great Wolf."

Despite the knowledge having been background tension in the court since Julian and his family had arrived, a muted murmur goes around the room. Some are shocked, as though this is a surprise to them. Some, like his father, are dead silent. Many shift in their seats, creating a susurrus as fine fabric rustles against worn-smooth wood. The King holds up his hand and the room falls silent once more. The silence holds for a long moment and in a different time, a different world, Julian would admire the man’s sense of dramatic timing.

As it is, it just makes his heart beat rabbit fast in his chest.

The silence that settles over the room is like a burial shroud over a body ready for the pyre, weightless and somehow the heaviest pressure in the room. It sits for endless moments but in the end it’s only a handful of Julian’s now rapid heartbeats. He fights the urge to wipe his sweaty palms across the back of his trousers, a nervous tick he never truly got rid of despite his mother’s attempts to keep his hands away from the mark that lay under the layers of fabric.

Vizimir sniffed and surveyed his loyal lords: counts and dukes and marquises, faces of families who had been part of the courts for generations on end, since Redania had become a kingdom in its own right. His night-dark eyes glittering like obsidian in the golden light of the sun filtering into the stone room. Julian could have sworn he felt that gaze land on him for a long, long moment.

Finally, the king spoke.

“In order to affirm the loyalty we show to Kaedwen, to keep our independence from the barbarous warlord and his soulless Witcher army, we shall send a caravan of tribute. The finest things that each of your houses, your lands can produce, shall be collected, brought together, and will be transported to Kaer Morhen to the northeast. Your cooperation will keep our lands peaceful and out of the warpath. You’ll understand, of course, that some may be asked to give what appears unfair compared to others. However, trust that your contributions have been determined to be balanced and equal per what each of you has provided to the crown in taxation previously.” His smile is benevolent underneath his groomed beard, though his eyes are dark and calculating and, again, Julian is sure he can feel those coal-dark eyes on him like a pressure and he fights not to squirm in his seat.

At this statement, the king gestures to his herald. The man who announced the king’s entrance steps forward, unfurls a length of parchment nearly twice as long as his forearms, and begins reading. Name, title, territory, and tribute contribution. Beginning with the dukes, moving towards the marquises, down to the counts, and finally, the viscounts and barons.

Beside him, Julian’s father and brother are still and silent and he does his best to match them, but he has always been a creature of movement. His fingers tap anxiously against the outside seam of his trousers before Aleksander takes his hand and presses it firmly against the wooden bench beneath them.

“Alfred Aleksander Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove, tribute will be in the form of your youngest son, Julian Alfred Pankratz, the Bard Jaskier.” Julian feels the world go muffled as though he’s underwater. Beside him his father stands to his feet in outrage as Aleksander joins him, shouting protests. Julian couldn’t feel his limbs and for all his pent up anxious energy before, he finds it no trouble to be still now.

He was ordered by Vizimir II, the King of Redania, to be tribute to the Great Wolf of the north, the Warlord of Kaedwen, in his keep of Kaer Morhen.

The court is in uproar. The Great Wolf of Kaedwen is not known for being a gentle man. He takes his opponents by force if they will not bend the knee, and it is said he had taken thousands of prisoners before—prisoners of war turned into servants and slaves, used for his own benefit and tortured, broken and tossed away when they were of no more use to the man. Usually dead. Usually after they had served the Great Wolf to the full extent of their bodies. And, if not the warlord himself, then his army of Witchers and their superhuman stamina were served by his prisoners.

And now...now they were sending Julian.

“Silence!” Vizimir called out into the courtroom, and it took a few moments for the lords to quiet down this time. “Viscount Pankratz, I am sure you understand your son is the only thing that matches the value of the other tribute to be sent.” His voice was sickly sweet with placation and the expression on his face falsely sympathetic, “Had there been anything else of equal value we might have sent, we would have avoided this. But alas, it would be _unfair_ to others if you were to give less than they were.”

Julian had only been half listening to the other types of tribute, mostly to reassure himself that the king would not request anything that his father couldn’t actually provide. Mostly it was cloth, grain, livestock, and gold. Julian was to be sent as little more than _cattle_ to Kaer Morhen. He distantly thought he might be trembling, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could barely see.

“I…” Julian’s father closed his eyes briefly, dipping his head—he was defeated. He couldn’t negotiate out of this one, had sealed his son’s fate with his speaking out against the king’s regressive policies. “Of course, your majesty. My apologies.” He sat back down heavily. Aleksander looked as though he might continue protesting but at a single look from their father, he too sat down with a deferential bow to the king who sat, pleased as a cat who had drank the cream, on his throne.

“Thank you, Viscount Pankratz. Herald, continue.”

Julian heard no more of the litany of items to be sent away, but at the lack of outcry from any of the other lords, minor or otherwise, he figured he was the only human being that would be sent along with the tribute. A numbness fell over him as he stared down at his hands in his lap, limp and useless.

He would be sent to Kaer Morhen, little better than a bolt of cloth, to be used and discarded as the warlord saw fit. He would never see his family again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian, unwilling to accept the death sentence that is being sent to the Great Wolf's keep in Kaedwen, decides that escape is his best option. He enlists the help of his closest, most trusted friend, plotting a foolproof plan to keep him safe from the Great Wolf's clutches and out of the caravan of tribute to be sent to Kaer Morhen. 
> 
> This goes about as well as you'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I lied a _smidge_ in that chapter 2 is _not_ where things get Not So Good for everyone. Admittedly, chapter 2 used to be a lot longer before I broke it up into 3 separate chapters so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Anyway, enjoy Softe Boys being Softe at one another before things get Very Upsetting For Everyone.

The ride home in the carriage was just as silent as the ride to Tretogor.

All the lords had been given time to go home, collect their tribute offerings in the quantities demanded by the king, and then the king’s men would come to collect it back to the capitol, before they would set off down the main road parallel to the Pontar, through the pass between the Kestrel and Mahakam mountain ranges, across the Buina to follow the Gwenllech past Ard Carraigh and straight up into the Blue Mountains. 

At least Julian would get to say goodbye.

It was his turn to stare vacantly out of the window of the carriage as his father and brother avoided looking at him or one another. There was nothing to be done.

They were only an hour or so away from the estate when Julian’s father spoke up.

“Julian, I am-”

“I know, father,” Julian interrupted, shaking his head. “It’s…” He couldn’t find an end to the sentence. He closed his mouth around words that wouldn’t come. 

He wasn’t one to be easily lost for words and now there were none. How could one explain the utter devastation of knowing he was being sent to his death? How could he comfort his father and also acknowledge the horrors that were sure to come to him? How could he spend the next week in his father’s house, waiting for the king’s men to retrieve him and bring him back to Tretogor to accompany the rest of the _tribute?_ How could he pretend this was alright while he said his goodbyes to the people who he loved? Never to see them again.

His father nodded in response, as though Julian had spoken the words he didn’t have, a despairing look on his face as he returned his gaze to the floor of the carriage between their feet.

It was in the remaining time in the carriage that the cogs in Julian’s head started chugging away, turning and milling the grains of thought into a flour he could turn into a plan, rising with every moment as they approached his childhood home.

\---

They arrive at the Lettehove estate after dinner. Julian’s mother is standing outside, one of her many beautiful shawls wrapped around her shoulders. Mieczyk stands beside her, wooden crutches digging holes in the gravel of the drive—the only two to greet the carriage. The messenger got there before them, then. Good.

The men disembark and Julian is swept up by his mother, exactly as he figured he might be. He exchanges a look with Mieczyk, signals with his fingers: index and middle pointed upwards, then curled slightly, brought down with a slight wave, part of a number of signs and signals they came up with as children to talk without adults listening. _I need to speak with you._

Mieczyk gave the barest of nods, the lock of brown hair that habitually fell over his left eye shifting with the moment, before helping the driver unhook the horses from their burden and leading them to the stables. His twisted legs shuffled in the gravel as the tired horses gratefully plodded along behind him.

Julian watched his friend as long as he could. Mieczyk was a few years younger than Julian, and shorter than Julian’s own mother, his legs wasted and thin though his arms were strong from wrestling horses, using the crutches that fit under his shoulders and pulling himself up into the hayloft using only his hands. His hair was straight and soft, tied back at the base of his skull in a low tail, reminiscent of the horses he looked after day in and day out. A quick glance over his shoulder gave Julian another look at the clear blue eyes that reflected like the bottom of the fountain in Oxenfurt’s bright courtyard. Julian met the look with a small, frowning smile—intending to reassure but knowing the expression didn’t quite fit on his face as his mother fussed in lieu of a greeting to her sons and husband. His thoughts still sped, clicking together the last details of his plan as she did.

Before long Julian was bustled into the house by his mother, and kept under her watchful eye for several hours before they were all forced to go to bed.

He snuck out through the window of his bedroom, climbing down the trellis as quietly as he could. He was oddly thankful to all the jealous spouses and protective parents of his paramours over the years for keeping this skill of his practiced so he wouldn’t fall. He made his way to the stables where he heard a low voice talking softly. Julian hid himself in the corner, pressing his back to the wood of one of the stall doors. He heard no responses to the lone voice, however, and sighed in relief.

Sauntering out from around the corner, he peered into each of the stalls, taking note of the healthy, well-groomed, comfortable, and (presumably) happy horses who were starting to doze. Eventually he found Mieczyk, standing next to Aleksander’s thoroughbred, Bron—well, leaning on him more than standing on his own power, as Julian noted the wooden crutches leaning against the wall between the stalls—brushing down the large beast while murmuring softly. Julian didn’t even get so much as a snort of acknowledgement from either horse or man as he leaned on the stall door and watched his oldest friend work.

“You should commission a painting, it will last longer,” Mieczyk spoke, his voice barely changing in tone from how he’d been speaking to the horse. Julian pouted a little as he realized Mieczyk wasn’t going to look away from the horse to talk to him. _Typical._

“Yes,” he retorted, putting a playful imperiousness and flirtatious tone in his voice, “but a painting never _really_ captures the true beauty of the subject—something is always lacking.” Mieczyk snorts, scratching above his left eye self-consciously, shifting the hair that hid the discolored skin there. Not that one could _really_ see anything, the mark barely a shade different from his skin tone. Julian smiled as he watched his friend move around the horse with a confidence born of skill and comfort with the activity.

“You’re _ridiculous,_ Julek,” Mieczyk dropped the brush gently into the bucket at his feet with a soft clatter as it landed on the cloths and other brushes, before leaning down with one hand steady on Bron’s leg to grab the handle. He carefully straightened back up, shuffling through the sawdust and hay that covered the floor in a soft pad, steps uneven with his likely aching legs after a long day of work. He came over to stand on the other side of the stall door from Julian, leaning on it as well, “I…heard what happened in Tretogor.”

Julian’s face fell and he glanced away from Mieczyk briefly. Mieczyk was unbearably pretty in the soft lamplight and the silver moonbeams coming in through the open stable door and Julian couldn’t stand the look of pity on his face in the orange-silver glow that haloed him. He took a second to compose himself before turning around and leaning back against the door, allowing his head to tilt backwards easily so he could gaze at the rafters and hayloft above them and not have to watch Mieczyk’s reactions. If he concentrated past the low light, he thought he might be able to see one of the barn cats slinking along the edge.

“What _happened,”_ Julian began, nearly snarling with the bitterness that coated his tongue as he explained, “is that an old man has been given too much power and is punishing my father for having thoughts of his own. And I refuse to play politics.” 

Mieczyk hummed, shifting closer to lay his forehead on Julian’s bicep, nuzzling into the fabric slightly. 

Julian inhaled shakily, suddenly letting the weight of everything hit him before he forced it away again, “I need your help.”

“Thought that might be why you wanted to talk,” Mieczyk huffed a laugh, the warm, humid breath penetrating Julian’s doublet sleeve comfortingly before the other man lifted his head again. “What is it you need?”

Julian spends the next couple hours explaining his plan to Mieczyk, the two going over details, providing suggestions to snags and polishing it to perfection. At some point they move to the hayloft to give Mieczyk a break from standing. It is late in the night when they finally wrap up, falling asleep, curled towards one another like quotation marks bracketing the sentences passed between them. 

They are found in the morning by the stablemaster who shakes Julian awake and helps him pick hay out of his hair so he can attend breakfast with his family and not look like he spent the night in the stables.

If his mother and brother can still tell by his wrinkled clothes and the scent of alfalfa and sawdust clinging to his hair and skin where he spent his night, they say nothing. Evenings in the stables have been a staple of his stays at Lettenhove since Mieczyk came to live in the estate, and they are familiar with the trysts the two young men used to get up to in their youth. It is possible they anticipated him having a few nights with Mieczyk in the last days of his freedom, before Redania comes to collect him, to send him off to certain death or worse.

\---

It took three days to prepare, collecting supplies as slowly and inconspicuously as possible so as not to draw attention. 

Finally, it was time: Mieczyk had his horse ready, saddle bags packed with light provisions and a few spare sets of clothing. Julian was wearing the plainest clothing he owned and a wide-brimmed hat to cover his head and face, along with a light cloak. The hat fastened with a thin length of leather sewn to the inside of the hat and tied below his chin so it wouldn’t come off as he rides.

He fidgeted anxiously with the tie on his hat, with the edges of his cloak, and the sleeves of his shirt as Mieczyk settled the tack on the horse. When Mieczyk had finished his job, Julian tugged him by the shoulder to turn him around. 

Mieczyk turns easily to Julian, snagging his crutches as he is brought around to face Julian, “Julek, are you _sur-”_

“I’m sure. I-” Julian pauses, swallowing thickly. This _has_ to work. He cannot be sent to Kaedwen as _tribute_ to a warlord who will surely kill him on sight, and if not that… 

He can’t let himself think of if he survives the initial encounter with the man, the tales of his fearsome strength and prowess flitting through Julian’s mind shadowed with horror and fear. “I am _sorry,_ dear friend.” He holds Mieczyk’s cheek in his palm, brushing below the mark on his face with his thumb.

Mieczyk shook his head softly, “No, this is…this is the best way. The only way. I just-” Mieczyk cuts himself off with a curse and turns away. 

Julian hand shifts to press his fingers under Mieczyk’s chin gently, pulling the short man’s face to him and pressing a gentle, heartfelt, deep kiss to the other’s lips.

Mieczyk made a small, distressed sound as his free hand came up to hold onto Julian’s arm. He pushed Julian away gently, “No. You…You need to leave. Quickly. Before anyone finds out you’re not in bed.”

Julian nodded, biting his lips together into a thin line as he watched Mieczyk pull away and stumble a little as he adjusted the crutches under his arms. When Mieczyk was out of arm’s reach, Julian mounted the horse in a smooth, practiced motion born of many years of riding though he rarely had a horse on the road as he travelled these days. He settled, adjusting his meagre disguise and nodding at Mieczyk.

“I’ll…I’ll write. As soon as it’s safe,” He promises, voice soft as the crickets outside chirp loudly. The sky was dark, the waning moon not yet over the horizon so the only light is the blanket of stars overhead. Mieczyk says nothing, just going to the door so that he can close it as soon as Julian is out of the stables, on his way away from the estate, away from Redania.

_“Go,”_ Mieczyk says, the last word he speaks as Julian kicks his horse to move, walking slowly out of the stables, down the drive. 

He makes it to the gate and turns back. Lamplight flickered in several windows, the sole signs of the servants and his family awake even at this late hour. Mieczyk was a small silhouette in the doorway of the stable. Julian wasn’t sure he’d be seen but he raised his hand in a short wave, before the door closed and the light from the stables went dark.

Julian turned in his saddle, facing forward. Facing _south._ It is a risk. A dangerous gamble, but they will expect him to head farther from Tretogor rather than closer to it. He will fool them, he _will_ get away, get across the Pontar into Temeria. Down and down and down until Redania cannot find him. He’ll make a new name for himself: Julian is missing, Jaskier cannot be. He’ll come up with something else when he is safe, a way to earn his supper.

He _will not_ be sent to Kaedwen, to Kaer Morhen, to be the Great Wolf’s trophy.

\---

Honestly, he probably should have anticipated being found so quickly. Julian really thought he’d at least make it to the Pontar if not all the way across to La Valette before anyone caught wind of him. 

Instead here he was, three miles out from the bridge to get him into Temeria, and the sound of several horses came roaring up behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicions that they were in fact Redanian guards. He cursed. 

Four days. Julian had made it _four days_ without being noticed. Had someone recognized him in the last village? Had he traveled too close to Tretogor after all? 

How had they _found_ him?

Julian pushed his horse on. Amaryllis was tired after three days of hard riding and rough sleeping, though she did her best to get him to the bridge. They were still half a mile away when the guards caught up to him, coming around and blockading the path so he was forced to a halt.

“My good gentleman, what could I help you with?” He asked, a bright smile on his face from under his hat.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, son of the Viscount of Lettenhove, you are hereby under arrest for treason.”

Julian was so astonished by the charge he forgot that he was not supposed to be himself, his mouth dropping open in shock. “ _Treason?_ For _what?”_

“You will come with us. You may stay on your horse as long as you cooperate. If you do not cooperate, we will be forced to bring you back in shackles. Do not do your family the disservice or dishonor of having their son be even more of a criminal,” The guard continued on, ignoring Julian’s question. 

He couldn’t believe it. _Treason?_ For not wanting to be sent to a warlord as little more than a bargaining chip for Redania’s safety?

“Sorry, gentlemen,” He let his mouth do the thinking for him as his brain continued to stay stalled on the charge, “It’s been lovely meeting you all but unfortunately I think our time here is up–” He pulled his mare up, and she reared, batting at the air in front of her with her forelegs, causing the guards’ horses to back up and jostle. The guards were proficient riders and quickly have their mounts under control, but Julian was faster. 

He got his mare into the fastest gallop he could manage. He could make it over the bridge, could enter Temeria, and if he could get into the forest outside of La Valette the trees would be too close for the guards to follow him quickly and he could _escape._

A crossbow bolt shot past his arm, boring a hole into his cloak and slicing past his arm. It stung and he knew it had broken skin. They were _firing_ on him?

Another bolt was shot and it hit Amaryllis in the flank, causing her to stumble and fall. Julian rolled and cursed as he tumbled into the grass on the side of the road.

The guards were on him immediately, one helping his mare to her feet while five others surrounded him, lifted him by his arms to kneel on the ground in front of the captain.

“I _had_ hoped you wouldn’t be as stubborn as your father seemed to think you might be,” The captain sighed, ruefully. “Put him in irons,” He directed to his soldiers, “We’ll bring him back to Tretogor to wait for his sentence with the other.”

  
“Other?” Julian’s brow knit in confusion as he struggled against his captors, “What other?”

“Gag him,” was the final order as Julian’s question hung in the air unanswered. Who else would be tried for treason? No one knew he was leaving aside from–

He struggled against the men holding him when the realization hit. A thick wad of cloth was stuffed into his mouth and tied into place with a length of burlap, forcing his jaw open as it was tied tightly enough that he couldn’t force the cloth out of his mouth with his tongue. He screamed and shouted regardless, keeping it up most of the way back to Tretogor and only fell silent when they tired of his screaming and knocked him out with a rough blow to the head. His last muffled cry is Mieczyk’s name, unintelligible through his gag.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mieczyk just wants his oldest and best friend to be safe. No matter what.
> 
> Loyalty may not be worth this, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! so I promised I'd break some characters. This is where it starts! Also, there's not a single canonical character in this entire chapter. Which is impressive, considering this is supposed to be a fanfiction.
> 
> TRIGGERS: mentioned past child abuse, detailed description of beating and mild torture as a method of coercion, brief mention of PTSD (to be expanded on in the future). 
> 
> I won't lie, this is hard to read. I say this as the person who wrote it. There is not a single canon character in this entire chapter. Theoretically you could probably skip the entire thing and not miss a lot. I'm notorious for repeating myself so it's entirely likely that you'll be able to figure out the basics without reading this. However, it is safe to read up until the guards arrive at the estate. You'll know when that is. If you need to stop there, I seriously do not blame you, but there's a bit of worldbuilding that might come in handy to know in later chapters in the first part of this which is why i don't recommend skipping the _whole_ chapter.
> 
> Plus, this is just the beginning, so... this will give you a good idea of what the whump of this fic looks like so you can best judge how you want to handle it in the future.
> 
> Okay that's my note for this. Go forth and consume the WhumpAngst!

_Four Days Earlier_

Mieczyk was awoken by a cold bucket of water being tossed over his face. He jolted, wincing in pain as his leg muscles seized briefly and gasped for air using lungs suddenly empty from the shock and cold. 

“Boy, you best have an explanation for why I’m missing tack and a whole gods-bedamned horse,” Friedrick, the stablemaster, growled, towering above him. 

“Wha–?” Mieczyk was still trying to catch his breath as he wiped the water and soaked hair from his eyes to look up at the older man. 

Friedrik was a large man, built like a barrel. He was in his sixties with iron grey hair and sharp hazel eyes. A bushy beard covered half his face and down to his collarbone in bristly, wiry hair. 

“Speak quickly, boy! I better have an answer for the master before he has his breakfast,” Friedrick glowered down as Mieczyk fought to sit up, struggling to comprehend what was happening through the haze that came from an inadequate amount of sleep.

After he had seen Julian off in the wee hours of the night, he hadn’t been able to settle himself down to sleep. Anxiety and nerves kept him awake and pacing the corridor between the stalls until the light outside had become blue-grey with dawn. Mieczyk had settled down outside of the Viscount’s horse’s stall—Beatricia had always appreciated someone nearby while she slept, after all—until he was awoken by the splash of cold water. Now he was wet and freezing and everything ached, though the last part was less unusual than he would have probably preferred. 

Mieczyk grimaced as he searched the ground for his crutches, finding them laying beside him where he’d left them the night before. Once they were located, he began his usual struggle to his feet. The sun hadn’t reached much further in its trek across the sky from when he’d lay down, as it barely yellowed the fog that hung across the grounds. There was a story, something he was supposed to say… 

“Master Julian went out for an early morning ride, Friedrik,” He grunted, hitching his crutches up under his arms and moving his legs slowly to stretch them back out, wincing at the strain on his joints. “He tacked his horse and left maybe two hours ago?”

Friedrik’s face went ashen behind his beard. “Boy, you best be tellin’ stories again. You’d be whipped, same as normal, but that’d be all you’d get for falsehoods,” Friedrik’s hands came up and held Mieczyk by the shoulders firmly, his grip nearly bruising. “Tell me Master Julian didn’t leave with Amaryllis, and that’s all you’ll get is a beating.”

Mieczyk’s heart pattered in his chest, like the hoofbeats of a galloping horse, “I– What’s going on, Friedrik?” The old stablemaster shook him roughly.

_“Tell me he didn’t leave!”_

“He did!” Mieczyk cried back, alarmed, “He took her for a morning ride, that’s all I know!” Mieczyk wobbled on his crutches as they slipped against the hay-slick flagstones, “I didn’t ask him anything, Friedrik, didn’t even help with the horse, I promise,” Though the lie slid easily out of Mieczyk’s mouth, he felt the sour taste of it on his tongue like bad oil. “He got her ready on his own. All I did was open and shut the door for him.” 

Friedrik cursed violently, shoving Mieczyk away. Mieczyk couldn’t stabilize himself quickly enough and collapsed against the stall door, his crutches clattering to the ground as his feet slid out from beneath him. The thin limbs scrabbled at the flagstones as he pulled himself up, watching Friedrik stalk off, cursing and shouting and startling the remaining horses in the stable.

Mieczyk’s heart would not slow down, and there was a rock in his stomach he hadn’t felt in _years_. He’d known that Julian being gone was going to cause an uproar but he hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. Friedrick wasn’t just angry, the large man was _scared._ And if Friedrick was scared, Mieczyk didn’t really _want_ to know how bad things were about to get.

Mieczyk had been beaten and whipped for telling lies before—it had been a nearly weekly occurrence during the height of his and Julian’s trysts together before the older boy had gone off to Oxenfurt for university—but that it would be _worse_ than a beating, that it wouldn’t be _just_ a beating, because Julian was gone?

If the best outcome was that Julian was found in his bed and Mieczyk had lied and got a beating… _what would happen when they realized Julian escaped and Mieczyk had known?_

And Julian _was_ gone—had _escaped_ , in fact, to avoid his fate of being sold off by Redania to a warlord who would sooner see him tortured for sport and entertainment than listen to his beautiful voice, his lute playing. Mieczyk couldn’t imagine Julian in any state of servitude to another, let alone _worse_ than that as little more than furniture, to be brought out at the Great Wolf’s amusement until all the life and light in his limbs had died.

Though now, faced with the unknown threat of a punishment for telling the _truth,_ even the half truth as he’d provided on Julian’s instruction, he wondered if maybe he should have fought Julian harder on his plan, after all.

* * *

Friedrick had informed the Viscount of his son’s departure very shortly after he’d left Mieczyk in the stables, and Mieczyk was forced to recount his lie several times over to the master of the house within the half hour that followed. Master Alfred had been pale, sweating and shaking as he’d asked Mieczyk to repeat himself, though his voice remained firm as he ordered, “Just one more time, my boy. I need to know as much as you can tell me about where he might have gone.”

An hour passed. Two. Three. Julian was long gone, farther away than his family knew, but even if Mieczyk had been telling the truth, he would have still been far enough away by now that it would be a struggle to find him and bring him home.

Mieczyk was brought into the house, sat down with the Viscountess de Lettenhove, Lady Katarzyna, and given warm tea as though he were a child again. The Viscount and Friedrik spoke in the other room. Master Aleksander stood at the window of the parlor they were in, staring out at the gate, then pacing in front of the fireplace, then back to the window for more staring. Lady Katarzyna was nervously picking at some embroidery, her hands pulling at the threads like one of the cooks would pluck feathers from a bird to be prepared for supper. 

Mieczyk’s hands shook, clattering the teacup in the saucer as he set it down, the fine porcelain too smooth and delicate in his work-roughened hands. He wrapped his left arm around his stomach, his fingers fidgeting in his shirt, just over the edge of the mark that lay on his skin there—a comfort knowing it was there. The mark over his eye itched, too, but he resisted reaching up to rub at it as well.

Aleksander was pacing in front of the fireplace again, his own hands rubbing together, over and over his knuckles, the chapped-red skin of them bright against his light tan hands. The Viscountess finally put down her embroidery and brought her hand up to her mouth, leaning gently against the arm of the couch as she stared into vacant space, her thumb idly brushing against a thin, pale line running down her chin. A line that matched the scar hidden just on the edge of the Viscount’s beard.

Mieczyk drew his gaze away from the lady of the house, dropping his hands limply into his lap where he stared, waiting. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, they were waiting for, but they were waiting.

The door to the parlor opened and the Viscount and Friedrick came into the room. Friedrick stood stoic and calm behind the Viscount who was still pale but looked far more put together than the last time Mieczyk had seen him, at least an hour ago at this point. The Viscountess stood from her spot and stepped toward her husband before stilling herself, her skirts rustling with the movement. Aleksander turned from the fireplace where he’d stopped to lean against the mantle, and looked at his father.

“At this point, Julian is too far for us to catch up to him. Trying to reach him will be more detrimental to him than anything. All we can do is wait for the King’s guard to arrive and let them know that Julian has…left.” The Viscount sighed, rubbing his hand over his face tiredly. It was barely midmorning and already the entire household was exhausted like they’d been awake for days. “Stupid boy,” Alfred muttered to himself almost self-deprecatingly, “He’s doomed us all…but I cannot blame him for wanting freedom in the face of his fate.”

Mieczyk was unable to find it within himself to gather his crutches and stand with the others. Instead the poles of wood continued to lean inoffensively against the settee he’d been placed on. He looked at them, following the wood grain down to the ends, rough from use. He’d need a new pair before the year was out, surely. These had lasted him a year and a half already—sturdy and strong and good substitutes for working legs.

The train of thought distracted him from the mind-numbing fear that encroached on him, had fallen upon the room as a whole. The focus on the crutches also allowed him to avoid looking at the family who he betrayed with every word he’d spoken this morning, that he did not speak now.

“What…what will they do with him, Alfred?” The Viscountess—no, in this moment she was Katarzyna, mother and wife—finally allowed herself to rush into her husband’s arms. He caught her by her elbows as she embraced him, “What will they do to my baby?”

“The gods and the king are the only ones who will know that, my love,” Alfred whispered to her, though the silence in the room was enough that both Mieczyk and Aleksander could hear the words even with their distance. “They must find him first, and…may I be struck down for this, I hope they never do. I hope he reaches his destination and is never heard from again. They may do what they wish to me, but I hope he is free.”

Mieczyk’s stomach was sour, acid boiling up his chest and sticking in his throat as he swallowed, looking away again. He couldn’t watch them. He had chosen to _betray_ them in order to stay loyal to Julian. The king would wreak punishment upon them all, and it would be Mieczyk’s fault because he had hidden Julian’s purpose, his destination, how far he had gotten.

He trembled, unable to do anything else.

* * *

The Lettenhove estate was somber. A pall hung over the household. Mieczyk returned to working, though he found no comfort in the warm bodies of the horses he cared for, no safety in the hayloft, no peace in the stables. Friedrick was unchanged in his behavior towards his stablehand—well, except perhaps a little more kind, less harsh to Mieczyk overall. This did nothing to quell the nervousness that caused Mieczyk’s chest to be hot and his limbs cold in turns, and caused his teeth to itch with anxiety.

He hadn’t stopped shaking with nerves since the Viscount informed them that they were all facing punishment for letting Julian get away. Since he realized the cost of his loyalty, and his treachery all uttered with the same false story. 

_Julian left two hours before Friedrick had woken him up, took Amaryllis and tacked her himself, Mieczyk had only opened and closed the door. It was just a morning ride, that was all he knew._

He was fairly certain both Friedrick and Lord Alfred both knew he was lying, but they had not forced him to say it again after the family had resigned themselves to their fate, whatever it might be.

It was to a muted household, grey even in the bright mid-morning sunshine, that the Redanian guards arrived, approaching the gate and making their way down the drive to the doors of the manor, demanding to have Julian sent out to them. It was to these guards that the Viscount de Lettenhove stood straight and tall and informed them that his son had escaped and they did not know where he had gone. The one who knew the most was the stablehand, Mieczyk, and he had told the family all he knew already. 

It was in the stables that they found Mieczyk, slowly wheeling a barrow-full of muck down the line of stalls towards the dung pile to be used as fertilizer in the gardens and the surrounding farms.

“Boy! Halt!” 

Mieczyk was tense as he lowered the barrow carefully to the ground, making sure it was stable and still before he shuffled to turn and face the men who had called out to him. Friedrik came out of one of the stalls, “Can I help you, sirs?” 

The guards brushed the older man aside, barely acknowledging that he’d spoken as the captain approached Mieczyk, “We have been told by the master of this house that you know where Julian Pankratz has gone.” The guard loomed over Mieczyk—not that he had to try very hard, in all his armor, as Mieczyk was barely a head taller than the stall doors. 

“I’ve told Master Pankratz all I know, sir,” Mieczyk said, shifting on his feet. He was able to shuffle along without his crutches, better when he had a cart or barrow to lean on, but it was painful to keep his weight on his feet so long, “Master Julian left for an early ride not but a day or two ago, and never came back.”

“You know where he was headed. You will tell us now, or you will be held prisoner as traitor to the crown and to the country of Redania,” The Captain said, stepping even closer into Mieczyk’s space. 

Mieczyk clenched his jaw with a shuddering inhale, “It’s all I know, sir. Master Julian didn’t tell me where he was going, barely let me help him with the horse at all. Saddled her up and went for a ride. _I don’t know anything else!”_ The last part was more of a startled shout than he’d anticipated as the guard raised his gauntleted hand as if to strike him, and Mieczyk flinched back on instinct.

“They boy’s told you all he knows, sirs! Hitting him won’t make him say more!” Friedrik said, rushing up beside Mieczyk. He stood nearly at a height with the captain of the guard, and though he was a broad man, still seemed less imposing than the fully armored Redanian soldier.

“Step aside, Stablemaster. I will handle this. This boy knows where the young master went. I will get the information from him.” The gauntleted hand swung down and made impact with Mieczyk’s cheek. 

The blow was more startling than anything for a few long seconds before the pain blossomed in his bones, thrumming in time with his rabbit-quick heartbeat. Mieczyk bore the pain. He’d been beaten, burned, bruised, and left bleeding before. He woke every day aching from the waist down and stiff from the waist up. This he could bear, for his Julian.

_Not his, never his, his marks didn’t match and neither did Julian’s singular one but it was enough, enough for now, enough for always—whatever he could have because he didn’t deserve more._

He was startled out of this line of thought by that same gauntleted hand gripping his shoulder and yanking him away from the stability provided by the muck barrow. He stumbled, his feet tripping beneath him as his twisted legs fought for purchase against the hay-slick stone of the path between the stalls. The grip tightened on his shirt and dragged him back out of the stables, Friedrik yelling at them to “Let him go, he doesn’t know any more, leave the boy alone!”

Mieczyk would have appreciated Friedrik’s support and protests on his behalf more if Mieczyk wasn’t also lying to them all. He knew where Julian was headed. And he would hold out as long as he could against whatever these Redanians put him through—he would _die_ before he gave Julian up to them, up to Kaedwen, up to the Great Wolf.

* * *

Mieczyk tells them nothing by the end of the first day. Aside from the first slap to his face, the guards’ hands were bare or only in their leather gloves as they beat him black and blue. He spat blood and Friedrik helped realign his broken nose. He’d been given water only, no food.

They stop at midday the second day, and ask him what he knows. He lies, “I’ve told you all I know! He left in the morning with the horse and that’s it!” They continue their beating. This time, the guard deliberately puts his gauntlets back on. Mieczyk hopes that Julian has reached Temeria by now, hidden in plain sight with his shoddy disguise and false name.

Mieczyk’s skin breaks under the metal of the gauntlets. They do not give him water that night. They do not let him sleep. They break his crutches into splinters and use them for their campfire. He is on the outskirts of the estate in their camp as they work, as his cries when they beat him the first day had upset the mistress of the house. Not enough to stop the guards, but enough for them to move away. Mieczyk tries to be quieter. It doesn’t work as they pour actual salt into the wounds and scrub it in.

He screams, cries for a mother he hasn’t seen in over a decade. Sobs to have his father stop, he’ll be good, _he’ll be good._ Just stop.

The men take turns beating him throughout the night, allowing him no sleep.

They ask again at first light, and he breaks. He apologizes to Julian between sobbing breaths, between the truth. His legs are bent underneath him even more uncomfortable than they would be normally, something might be broken but he can’t tell under his other hurts.

“Temeria. He said he would head to Temeria. He– he left well before first light the day the horse went missing, took supplies—I tacked the horse. Please, _please_ no more.” He can’t breathe. His ribs ache like stab wounds. Which he knows the feeling of thanks to the knife they had stabbed between the bones in his feet. They chain his arms behind his back with heavy iron manacles as soon as they’ve gotten his confession from him, the yanking of the joints of his shoulders yet another ache among the rest. One of them may be out of socket. He’s not sure.

They pulled him to his bleeding feet, a man on either side of him, holding him up by his arms—more pressure, more pain. It would be inaccurate to say he can barely feel it anymore as it’s less of a numbness and more of an overwhelming sensation of _everything_ hurting so that he cannot think, still cannot breathe—though that might be his broken ribs. Perhaps one has punctured a lung, maybe he will not have to survive to see Julian sentenced to worse than the Great Wolf’s hands.

He dreads seeing the betrayal in Julian’s eyes. He knows he will not be forgiven.

He was marched, because he could not do it under his own power—even were he healthy and hale—without his crutches, alongside a small contingent of guards. They left the estate as the captain gathered the rest of his men. Mieczyk could not see through his swollen eyes, surely to be black and blue all over, could not hear through the ringing and rush of blood in his ears.

He could not look back on his home, unable see those who cared for him one last time as he is taken, he is sure, to his death—a traitor to the crown to try and protect his friend, his only friend in the world, from wasting away in a great stone keep in the mountains to the north.

Darkness took him not five steps into the march, the pain unbearable and the only thing his mind can do is shut down completely to save him the further torture.

He does not wake again until he is in Tretogor, kept in a cell, dirty and starving and broken.

He does not wake again until Julian is beside him in that same cell, curled around his body, crying and begging for Mieczyk to wake.

He wished he hadn’t woken ever again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught by Redania, Julian is sentenced for the second time to be tribute—now as traitor to the crown of Redania—and they've added his accomplice to his crimes, Mieczyk. The journey to the Blue Mountains is a nightmare neither of them can wake up from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the hardest chapter I've written so far. Will there be harder ones to get through in this story? possibly but I haven't gotten there yet.
> 
> If the Major Archive Warning for this story is something that might be an issue for you to read about, even as an allusion, you're gonna want to stop reading at "Gag him." You should be safe to pick back up three paragraphs before the end of the chapter.
> 
> I'm not going to sugar coat this, this one is tough to read. We're nearly at the "making it better" part though. I promise as soon as these boys get to Kaer Morhen things start looking better for them. Not immediately but it does. I _will_ fix what I break in this story, I promise.

* * *

Julian doesn’t know what to do with himself. Mieczyk is here, beaten until he broke and was forced to tell Redania where Julian had gone, but here. In a cell. With Julian. Awaiting punishment for Julian’s foolish choice to try and run away.

Mieczyk is so small and silent and still for so long, Julian feared he’d been placed in a cell with a dead man. But the quiet, pained breaths his friend took again, and again, and again had assured him that Mieczyk lived still. Julian held him in his arms, stroked his bloodied hair, removed the dirt and gore caked into it, that flaked off into his face. He kissed what little skin was unbruised and unbroken. 

_He_ did this. Put Mieczyk in this position. Julian knew when he’d asked Mieczyk for help how loyal he was. They’d lied and covered for one another for various petty things over their long friendship. They were in love at one point, despite the marks in their skin. One of which was all but invisible under the bruising on Mieczyk’s face. Julian was afraid to touch the edge he had memorized years ago, and hadn’t the heart to check what the other one looked like on his ribs.

A day after Julian was brought in, Mieczyk woke up. He pulled away from Julian’s embrace, flinching from his touch like he hadn’t since– since Julian had told Mieczyk he was leaving for Oxenfurt and wouldn’t be back for years, when Julian realized how much his young friend loved him despite everything. Julian’s heart broke as he tried to talk to his friend who stayed silent, quiet and smaller than Julian had ever seen him.

“Mieczyk?”

Nothing, Mieczyk barely moved.

“Mieczyk, please I– I am…please just _look_ at me,” Julian begged.

A quick glance out of the side of Mieczyk’s eye, briefly catching Julian’s own before darting away again.

_“Gods,_ Mieczyk, my dear, dear one. I am…I cannot…let me help you. I just– just want–” He reached again for the smaller man. Mieczyk pulled away, tucking himself into the corner with a small whimpering noise. Julian pulled his hand back, clenching it in a fist to his chest, “I– _I am so sorry.”_ Mieczyk winced and turned his head further away. Julian persisted, “You shouldn’t have been caught up in all this. I shouldn’t have– should have– _Please,_ Mieczyk, speak to me. Tell me to fuck off, tell me to never speak to you again, tell me _anything._ Just please look at me, _please.”_ He begged, scooting closer on his knees and something deep inside him shattered at the way Mieczyk tried to pull even further away, though there was nowhere to go.

“Just…just _stop,_ Julian,” He whispered. “They won’t…What happens next is _my fault.”_

“No, dear heart, no. No never, this is– if it’s anyone’s _fault,_ then it is _mine.”_ Mieczyk did not respond, though he no longer pulled away from Jaskier’s reaching fingers as he ran them gently over the bruised skin of his arms. “And only because _Vizimir_ wants to do something truly abhorrent in order to get my father in line and I– I should not have involved you, my dear friend.” He reached for Mieczyk’s face but did not touch, especially as Mieczyk turned his face towards the wall once more, hiding the extensive bruising.

Jaskier tried several more times that evening to get Mieczyk to look at him, to talk to him, but there was nothing but silence broken only by breaths belabored by broken ribs to meet him.

* * *

They’d been stuck in the cell for two days, water and bread their only sustenance. Then the guards came. Mieczyk was manhandled out of the cell, his body nearly limp with exhaustion and pain, bruises still dark and black on his skin. Julian had protested—a purely automatic response to their treatment, a way to say he would fight this, to the end, whatever he had to do. But he knew it was bluster and so did the guards. All they had to do was jostle Mieczyk until he whined in pain and Julian quieted down, though his glare remained.

They were walked from the prison to the courtroom—the same one in which Julian had learned that he would be tribute to the Great Wolf. Now, rather than be seated in the benches that lined the room, where the lords sat and watched, the guards led them down the open space between the benches, in front of the king’s throne. 

Mieczyk was dropped unceremoniously where he crumpled to his knees, his bound hands dropping in front of him to keep his face from hitting the floor but that was all the effort he put into the action. Julian swallowed his rage as he too was forced to his knees in front of the throne where Vizimir sat, looking down his nose at them.

Julian could feel the gaze of all the lords watching them, but he stared up at Vizimir from his position on his knees. He did not glare, did not spit—though both were a close thing. He merely tightened his jaw so he would not speak, and looked up at the man who condemned him to the Great Wolf’s keep for being the son of someone who disagreed with his politics.

“Your majesty, the traitors,” The captain of the guard said, as he backed away from Julian and Mieczyk. “Julian Alfred Pankratz—also known as Jaskier the Bard—son of the Viscount of Lettenhove, Alfred Aleksander Pankratz, has been apprehended for treason to the crown and country of Redania for attempting to flee his duty as tribute to the Great Wolf, thus securing the safety of Redania. He was aided and abetted by the stablehand, Mieczyk, who hid his destination and plan from the crown and from the Viscount of Lettenhove.”

The king nodded once. Mieczyk stayed bent over, unable to bring himself upright. This apparently did not bother the king, who met Julian’s eyes coldly.

“Julian Pankratz, you have brought dishonor on Redania, on your father’s position, and your family as a whole, with your actions. You have risked the safety of your fellow countrymen for your own selfish desires. 

“For hiding you for three days, allowing you to nearly escape the country completely, your accomplice will be sent alongside you to Kaedwen, and you will both be given to the Great Wolf as not only tribute but as a show of our trust in his judgement so that he will take care of your traitorous ways in whatever manner he sees fit. 

“In addition, your father shall be stripped of his title—that title shall carry over to your brother only in the event that he stays loyal to the crown. Should you or any of your family step out of line once more, there will never again be a Viscount of Lettenhove, and the Pankratz line will end with you and your brother. 

“For not telling the crown of your disappearance, your father, Alfred Aleksander Pankratz, former Viscount of Lettenhove, will be sentenced to death.”

A shocked gasp echoed through the chamber. At least two of the lords collapsed in shock. Julian could not _breathe._

“No! _Please,_ anything but that!” He begged, his silence broken as he lurched forward. His shoulders were grabbed roughly from behind as the guards pulled him back from the king. Vizimir raised a single eyebrow at Julian, “Please, don’t–! He couldn’t have known! Don’t kill him, _please!”_

Vizimir did nothing further, simply waved his hand and Julian and Mieczyk were pulled off of the floor and dragged out of the room. Julian fought, begging the king to spare his father. The room was in an uproar, and the last thing Julian saw before the doors closed on the riotous lords were the steel grey eyes of his father, wet with tears that streamed down his face as he watched his youngest son dragged away for the last time.

Julian screamed.

* * *

Julian screamed for hours. He kicked and thrashed and fought his captors as he and Mieczyk were bound and tied to the back of one of the carts carrying the tribute. Rough rope pulled and dragged on his skin, rubbing it raw and giving him more to scream and curse at the guards about. The cart moved forward, dragging Julian and Mieczyk along behind it. 

Julian could barely keep up, as tired and hungry as he was, though he fought to not let their escort know. Mieczyk fared worse, unable to stabilize himself without the support of crutches and with his legs injured. Instead, he was _literally_ dragged behind the cart. He cried out for the first time as his wrists were pulled over his head and his own rope bindings dug into his skin.

Julian let out a string of insults and curses picked up from the seediest taverns across the Continent at their guard for treating Mieczyk like that, how _dare_ they. His anger fell on deaf ears and he could do nothing, their ropes too short to allow him to move towards Mieczyk, to help him up.

The ropes that bound them were bloody when the caravan stopped for the night. 

Julian continued to rage at their captors, and finally one of them came up and hit him soundly across the face. He snapped at the air like a wild dog as the guard’s hand retreated and the man glared at him. 

Mieczyk was unconscious beside Julian, a cart’s length away and Julian couldn’t reach him, the rope that tied him to the cart too short. He tugged at his bonds as he shouted and cursed at the men to let him see to his friend—couldn’t they see that Mieczyk couldn’t walk? Had been _dragged_ the miles they traveled that day?

“Wolnik, shut him _up,_ will you? I’m trying to enjoy my fucking meal!” One of the guards said over Julian’s shouting. He was already starting to go hoarse, but he would not stop, even if they beat him as bloody as they did Mieczyk. This was unjust, unfair, and he would _die_ before they reach Kaer Morhen for what they’ve done to his family.

“You best be quiet boy, or we’ll do much worse than hit you,” The guard standing over Julian growled.

“Fucking do it then, you bunch of yellow-bellied yaldsons! _Wandoughts!_ You _stampcrabs!_ Markless, unloved _whoresons!”_ He hurled the insults as though they would matter to these men who held the power here. 

The guard snarled, grabbing him by his hair and knocking his head against the cart. Julian is stunned enough to fall silent for a moment, as he felt something tickle down the side of his face. He brought his bound hands up what little distance he could and touched it. His hands came away bloody and he cursed. Julian couldn’t tell if it was from a new wound on his head or if it was the same blood that had been dripping down his palms since the skin of his wrists broke earlier in the day.

“You’ll stay quiet, boy, and we’ll make sure your friend doesn’t get dragged through the dirt, alright?” The guard says, darkly, “We can even give him a comfy place to sleep tonight, can’t we, boys?” He called this over his shoulder and there were a couple of loud whoops that were shushed quickly.

Julian considered the offer. Mieczyk could not walk without his crutches and he certainly couldn’t keep up with the cart. Julian would stay silent if they took care of him.

“Don’t touch him,” Julian’s voice cracks on the words, just barely over a whisper, “And I’ll be quiet.”

“He stays on the ground and you stay quiet and he can ride in the cart tomorrow. You speak and we take him away, and _you’re_ the one who has to explain why he’s still being dragged around.” The guard grinned and an unpleasant feeling starts in Julian’s stomach—a sour, sinking feeling that makes him feel like he’s chosen the wrong option even if there were no good options to choose from.

But he nodded, and remained silent through the rest of the evening. The watch shift changed, and Mieczyk’s pained breathing from four feet away kept Julian alert even on the edge of sleep. Eventually he nodded off. It’s a light, restless sort of napping, constantly awoken by the sounds of nature around them and the movement of the guards. 

The sky became grey as the sun began its ascent over the continent and Julian was roused from his half-doze to stand. They bound Mieczyk’s arms behind his back and tossed him unceremoniously onto the cart. Despite the anxiety about his choice, Julian let something ease in his chest, still sure he had made the wrong decision, but if it would let Mieczyk rest and heal…

It was the best choice he had.

* * *

Mieczyk was unconscious until midday. He woke, startled and afraid, jerking violently to try and free his arms before he realized where he was and what was happening. Julian watched him, silently, his eyes filled with sympathy and pain as he followed along behind the cart, though he remained uncharacteristically silent.

It’s more than he deserves, Mieczyk thought to himself sadly.

Their pace was brutal. They covered miles and were nearly to Piana when they stopped for the second night. The guards left Mieczyk on the cart while Julian remained tied to the back, shoved to the ground as they left the caravan to set up camp. Julian, though he must have been exhausted from the punishing march, shifted as close to Mieczyk as his bonds would allow.

“Mieczko, dear heart, are you alright?” His voice was soft and ragged—he had screamed most of the time Mieczyk had been conscious the day before, so this came as less of a surprise but it also seemed like he was _trying_ to be quiet.

Mieczyk nods, swallowing around his dry throat, his words squeaking out of him the first few times he tries to speak, “Why did they–?” He began his question, wanting to ask why he was in the cart.

“Shh, I’m…I’m not supposed to be talking, I– I bargained. For you to be in the cart.” Julian explains, his voice as soft as it will go and still be audible to Mieczyk, “I– I’m so _sorry_ , my dearest. I didn’t mean for you to be caught up in all of this.”

Mieczyk shook his head, “I couldn’t protect you. I tried, Julek– I–”

They were interrupted by a guard stomping over to them. He glared at Julian who glared right back.

“Warned you, boy, about making a sound,” He growled at Julian. Mieczyk jerked against his restraints towards the man.

“He wasn’t! I was–”

“Shut up,” The man kicked the cart, “I heard him talking to you. I warned him there’d be consequences.” Mieczyk flinched back from the man and Julian bared his teeth in a snarl. Mieczyk mentally begged Julian to stay quiet. Even if they have been caught out, they could still manage to salvage this if Julian just kept his mouth shut and said nothing. They could avoid whatever consequences this man was surely baiting them into.

Either Julian heard Mieczyk’s pleas or he has grown a sense of self-preservation in the past few days, because he stayed quiet. The man grumbled, slamming his hand on the cart once more, causing Mieczyk to jump and make a small noise of distress at the action, before going away.

Julian glared as he leaves, waiting until the whole group is distracted by their dinner or setting up their camp for the night. He turned then to Mieczyk and opened his mouth but Mieczyk just shook his head again, causing it to ache and the world to spin briefly.

Julian had a cut on his head and dried blood on the side of his face, and more of it coated his hands in dark, flaking streaks. His shirt—the one he’d been wearing when he left the stables of Lettenhove a week prior, the one he’d been wearing when he was captured—was dirty and stained and torn in places already.

Mieczyk would not let Julian put himself into more danger just to talk to one another. Julian’s face fell, and it broke Mieczyk’s heart but they _must_ be quiet if it means they stay safe. If it means they live long enough to try to run again.

Because Mieczyk would not let them get to the Blue Mountains without another attempt to save Julian from this fate. Even if it kills him, he will be sure Julian lives free.

* * *

It was a week before Mieczyk heard Julian’s voice again. They didn’t want to risk the ire of their captors, as Mieczyk had been allowed to stay on the cart since Julian bargained for it, and neither would put the other in danger by speaking.

They had been in Kaedwen several days; they'd just crossed the Buina on the road to Ban Gleán and the men who travelled with them were growing restless and antsy and both Mieczyk and Julian knew what little peace they had found on this trip so far was not long for this world. They braced themselves and were less surprised than they wanted to be when that peace was shattered.

They were given a meagre dinner, a relatively new addition to their nightly routine after Julian had collapsed on the road from fatigue two days previously. The sudden dead weight on the cart and Mieczyk’s cry of alarm had their caravan stop early for the night. One of the guards suggested that it might be that Julian hadn’t had food in several days, and so a hardtack and a small amount of water was fed to both men each night from that point on.

On this night two guards came over after their companions had settled around the campfire, a couple were whittling, one was peering down at a book he’d been steadily working his way through since they began traveling, and two others had begun a game of Gwent.

The two who approached Julian and Mieczyk were grinning back and forth, nudging one another as Julian glared at them. He remained silent, however, and Mieczyk sagged with relief.

This did not last long.

“Gag him,” One of the men said to the other, and Julian had no time to brace as they grabbed his face and forced his mouth open with strong fingers on either side of his jaw before a large pair of dirty socks was shoved unceremoniously between his teeth. A leather belt secured around his head to keep them there, much like the burlap they had tied around his head when he’d been captured by the Pontar. Julian gagged around the wad of foul-tasting fabric forcing his tongue back in his mouth, his protests muffled as he struggled against their hold.

Once they’d finished, they tossed him to the side. Then they went to Mieczyk.

“Nnnhh!” Was the best Julian could do as a protest through the gag, struggling to pull himself to his feet as they grabbed Mieczyk who looked more frightened now than he had this whole time. “Lhh hnn nghh!”

The guards untied Mieczyk from the cart and pulled him off of it, even as Mieczyk pushed against them as hard as he could. Though he was weak from minimal food and water and still healing (as poor and as little healing could take place with the conditions they suffered), his arms were strong and he shoved them off him again and again, shouting his protests as he did, “Let _go_ of me! Let me _go!”_

“Now, now, no need to fight us, little mouse. Just be easy and we’ll take care of you, hm? You’ve a pretty enough face for being a cripple. Just be quiet and we won’t have to hurt you.” Julian’s eyes went wide as he realized what was happening and he met Mieczyk’s frightened glance with a desperate scream—nearly loud enough to alert those at the campfire, but the gag was effective and, on top of that, no one seemed to care.

Mieczyk continued to try and fight the two men off, but they were well fed and hale, and Mieczyk tired quickly. He was bent forward over the back of the cart, his legs too short to reach the ground and they hung at their odd angles as rough hands moved him around, pulling him into position.

Julian held Mieczyk’s gaze as long as he could, screaming and screaming through his gag, louder than he’d been the first day. He fought the bonds that held him away from where they held Mieczyk down, the rope biting further in, reopening the wounds that hadn’t even tried to heal yet. His throat burned and he thought he might be tasting blood with the force of his screaming. 

Eventually Mieczyk closed his eyes against the pain and humiliation, turning his face from Julian as the first few tears slipped out of his eyes.

Julian cried and sobbed, his curses and screams eventually cracking and breaking behind his gag, before finally he sat in quiet horror as the men finished with Mieczyk, leaving him half-dressed and still dangling from the cart. Once they had moved away, the dead weight of his legs dragged Mieczyk to the ground and he did not fight it. Julian shuffled closer, reaching forward with his bound hands to try and comfort his friend.

The violent flinch back from his touch caused Julian to startle backwards. _Of course,_ of course Mieczyk wouldn’t want to be touched, not after they had…

Julian swallowed and gagged, bile and blood welling up in the back of his throat as the taste and smell of the soiled socks in his mouth came back to the forefront. He brought his hands up and struggled with the leather belt but it was too tightly cinched around his head and the leather stuck to the dried blood and sweat on his skin, making attempting to move it impossible.

They ended up laying only a foot or so away from one another—the closest they’ve been allowed so far—as they drifted off into exhausted, terrified sleep.

* * *

The day after the first time, both Mieczyk and Julian fought back against them harder, renewed against their captors. Day after day they tried to fight back. Mieczyk finally let loose his frankly terrifying temper, cursing and spitting and railing against the guards as they came close to him. His arms were still bound but he used the combined force of his bound wrists as a bludgeoning weapon against the men, swinging wildly as though he wielded a club at the end of his arms instead. His legs, thin and weak though they were, kicked and flailed out, as he tried desperately to keep them away from him. 

In the end, he wore himself out and they took what they wanted anyway. They had him dragged behind the cart for three days after that as punishment, to wear him out by struggling to get his feet underneath himself and stay upright, before they stopped for the night. Walking behind the cart was a losing battle for Mieczyk, even if they hadn’t been traveling at such a punishing pace, and he ended up dragged along on through the dirt and the rocks within minutes of the caravan starting its journey each morning.

Julian was kept gagged when he wasn’t eating. The first time he was ungagged for supper he cursed and screamed, his voice hoarse and broken, reopening the wounds in his throat he had given himself while watching Mieczyk be hurt. As soon as the guards realized he would not eat in favor of screaming at them, they replaced the gag and left him to stew in his muffled rage. Julian’s legs kicked out towards those who touched Mieczyk that night, so they hog-tied him to keep him still. He kept eye contact with Mieczyk as long as they could stand it. Julian would not leave Mieczyk to suffer through this on his own. Never would his friend be alone in this journey. It wasn’t Mieczyk’s fault he was here, and Julian would pay for the sin of dragging him into this no matter what the cost.

Mieczyk had to stop shouting and spitting at the men as they travelled. The pace and his inability to walk more than a few steps on his own required his full concentration to stay as far off the ground as he could, to keep from being dragged the entire time.

Eventually Mieczyk stopped fighting all together. By that point, no matter how hard or loud or long he screamed, Julian could make no more sounds. His raw throat bled enough that whenever the gag was removed for him to eat and drink, the socks that had been shoved into his mouth were stained with blood from the coughs that came when he could no longer force his body through the motions of screaming, no matter if sound came out at all.

By the time they reached the base of the Blue Mountains, three weeks into their journey, two weeks into this horror that they’d been subject to night after night after night, Mieczyk could only stare dead-eyed into the distance as they travelled, limp behind the cart. He wouldn’t even try to look at Julian as he was broken again and again, his face always turned away. Julian could not make a single sound, and if he tried, his throat felt as though he had swallowed a thousand shards of glass. 

Julian would probably never be able to sing again. He wasn’t sure if he cared.

The trek up the path to Kaer Morhen takes two whole days due to the steep incline and the high altitude. Finally the keep comes into view. They are here. And now Julian and Mieczyk will have to face the Great Wolf’s judgement, whether he deems them worthy of death or if he will continue their torture in the great stone keep nestled into the side of the mountain.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Mieczyk arrive at Kaer Morhen and meet the man in charge himself, the Great Wolf of Kaedwen. Their introduction to Kaer Morhen is only slightly less traumatic than their journey to the great keep, but things may not have been all they had anticipated after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is the last rough chapter for a while. This one should be fine, but as always be mindful of your own limits and needs while you're reading. Thanks for sticking it out, I promise things get better for a while after this!!!

They were hours out from Kaer Morhen, the great stone fortress still currently hidden behind the tall trees that made up the forest surrounding the treacherous pathway. There had already been a few close calls with the carts nearly not fitting on the narrow road, wheels slipping and rocks tumbling to where the ledge drops off into an abyss of foliage and boulders, sharp shale waiting at the bottom for anyone unfortunate enough to misstep.

They breaked around mid-afternoon at what appeared to be a campsite, the ground flat and wide enough for the guards to gather together around a disused fire pit. Julian and Mieczyk were untied from the cart and pulled over to the side. Mieczyk, long having given up on trying to keep pace with the cart up the mountain, was raw and bruised from the road, his shirt in tatters around him. Jaskier could no longer force himself to look at his friend, guilt and self-hatred turning his face from the downcast, dull, blue eyes and dirt-caked body that was now held limply between two men.

Over the course of the journey, the ropes had become embedded in the skin of their wrists, and their removal was more painful than their presence had been. Jaskier tried to scream in reaction, but his throat only emitted a small, pitiful, cracked sound instead. Mieczyk’s cry in reaction to the same treatment _was_ audible, though it was more an involuntary whimper, resigned to the further injury he would sustain at the hands of the guards.

They were stripped nude, their clothes tossed into bags on the back of the cart. A small creek ran down the mountain nearby and they were washed in the cold water, a harsh soap scrubbed over their skin and through their hair. The blood that oozed from their wounds was staunched with an astringent, stinging ointment and wrapped with clean linen bandages. 

They were redressed in clothes that were clean and whole. Julian’s limbs were maneuvered roughly into clean brais and a chemise before he was forced into a red silk brocade doublet and matching set of trousers that tucked into leather boots so new that they practically shone in the daylight filtering through the trees. He looked like he was just setting out on the road to sing again, fresh from a winter at court or a holiday with his family. He had never hated finery so much than he did in that moment.

Mieczyk was shoved into new underthings as well, and then into plain clothes: canvas trousers and linen shirt with a soft deerskin leather waistcoat. His limbs were limp like a ragdoll and he could not stand without the guards holding him upright. Mieczyk’s hair was brushed and tied back, much like he had kept it at home, a front lock kept forward to hide the bruising on his face. The same bruising that covered the outline of the mark over his eye. Julian wanted to weep for the loss of the faint but distinctive feature, temporary though the loss hopefully was, but he had not had enough water to cry and his throat was so raw it hurt to swallow, so it was probably best that he could not.

One of the horses that had been sent with the tribute was tacked up and Julian and Mieczyk were mounted on top. They were then flanked by guards and the caravan began its slow ascent once more up to the gates of Kaer Morhen.

If nothing else, Julian could admit that it was an impressive structure. Great stone walls rose up from the mountainside, creating the fortress that surrounded the castle itself. The building was nestled into the mountain in such a way that Julian couldn’t be sure it wasn’t actually a part of the mountain. Watchtowers were scattered through the battlements at even intervals and he could nearly feel the eyes of the guards within, their inhuman gazes watching their party move closer and closer.

He nearly wished he could feel terror, or awe, or _anything,_ really. Mostly he just felt hollow.

Whatever they would do here in Kaer Morhen to him and Mieczyk will not matter to anyone outside of those walls. And no matter what they did, at least they would no longer be at the mercy of these guards, their fellow countrymen, who would torture and abuse them. At least at the hands of the Great Wolf, pain was expected.

The gates, surprisingly, were open. As if they expected people to be coming through them. Perhaps they did, Julian considered. They would have heard or seen the caravan coming from much farther away than humans could—and even without their mutations, their vantage point on the mountain would make it easy to see for leagues.

They ushered the caravan into the courtyard, filling the empty space quickly. A group of very large, scarred, and heavily armed men waited for them. The leader was a tall man, though only the second tallest, built like a grizzly bear on its hind legs. He was tall and broad, easily six-and-a-half feet high and his stature and physique were only enhanced by the furs and leathers that he wore. His dark black hair and terra cotta skin complimented by the thick linen armor tunic reaching all the way to the man’s ankles. The tunic was augmented by a leather cuirass. A fur-lined cape attached to the man’s shoulders and broadened the impressive silhouette he made in the courtyard.

He crossed his arms and stared down his nose at the guard captain who had led the caravan. The man—the _Witcher,_ Julian notices as he sees the golden, cat-like eyes set under heavy brows—makes a face briefly, but then addresses the captain, “Who are you and what do you want?”

“We come from Redania, bearing tribute for the Great Wolf of Kaer Morhen, king of Kaedwen,” The guard captain managed to keep his voice steady, even as he visibly trembled while he bowed to the large man.

There was some jostling among the men behind the Witcher addressing the captain, and he shot a glare over his shoulder that stilled them—yet more Witchers. “And the two on the horse? Who are you?”

“They are part of the tribute, my lord. They have… _skills_ that would be suited for your court, and are offered on behalf of Redania’s good will towards your great and growing country, to secure an allyship with you.” The captain continues, his voice growing more steady and calm as he goes on. Julian really wished he felt more than numbness because he would love to at least make a face about the description of the tribute, about his and Mieczyk’s purpose in it.

“Did I _ask_ you?” The large Witcher growls, and the Captain shrank back.

Julian opened his mouth to speak, to respond with _anything._ Mieczyk got there first, his voice ragged as well but not to the point Julian’s was, “This is Jaskier, the bard. I am his manservant, Mieczyk.”

“Hm,” The Witcher looks thoughtful for a second, “Alright. Get off the horse and follow me. I’ll take you to the Great Wolf.” Something about the way he says the title seems… _off_ to Julian, but he can’t quite figure out what it is. The numbness that covers his entire being is smothering his ability to read people, and Witchers are apparently difficult to read. This should have been more obvious to Julian, considering the stories of their soullessness, their brutality and unfeeling nature, but he would let himself off the hook this once due to the extenuating circumstances.

“Fuckin’ sent a bouquet with their tribute, huh?” One of the men who had been behind the Witcher-who- _wasn’t_ -the-Great Wolf—one of the shortest ones—snickers. The tallest of the men, the _Witchers,_ taller even than the man who met them, hits his companion on the shoulder.

The tallest man was _huge_. Broad shouldered and barrel-chested, he was somehow bulkier than the man who greeted them. His own dark hair had a hint of red in the sunlight and there was an attractive smattering of freckles across his nose. Well, underneath the scars, anyway. Lines extended away from his eyes like elaborate crows feet despite his apparent younger age—he certainly _couldn’t_ be older than Julian’s brother, anyway—and a thick scar went from his right temple, over his eye and nose, then down to the jaw on his left side of his face. And that wasn’t counting the _hundreds_ of scars criss crossing his arms.

Julian felt himself cower away briefly, but as if from a distance. Logically he knew this behemoth of a man wasn't aiming his glare at him and Mieczyk, but an instinct he didn't know he had controlled his body even as they began to dismount. Julian slid off the horse first, landing on aching feet and painful ankles, which ended up being the smart move as almost immediately Mieczyk began to slip, his legs not strong enough to hold him up without assistance. He reached up to catch his friend and as he righted Mieczyk on the ground, he caught the eye of the man who intended to lead them to the Great Wolf. 

The man's gaze was dark and sharp, focused like an eagle on Julian’s wrists, thus far covered by his doublet and sleeves. His mouth moved but Julian couldn't hear anything come out. The rowdy group behind him stilled, quieting down almost immediately. _Well,_ Julian thought to himself, _Maybe we'll not be the only ones perishing at the hands of the Great Wolf after all._

Mieczyk looked at Julian, and he shook his head minutely at the shorter man, still supporting him by allowing Mieczyk to grip his forearms as tightly as he could. It wasn't nearly as tight as it should have been, and Julian relished in the worry that flooded up, if only for the ability to feel _something_ through the haze. But they had to move, had to make their way through the Great Wolf’s keep and meet the monster behind the stories, the man who would decide their fate.

* * *

Mieczyk’s steps were uneven, shaky and slow and Julian did his best to keep him upright and also keep up with the Witcher leading them through the dark corridors and halls. The wounds through his feet had never healed all the way and walking in the thin leather shoes the soldiers had shoved his feet into was like stepping on thick shards of glass. He stumbled frequently, legs trembling with the effort of holding him upright after so many days of disuse. Attempts to keep himself up were met with blinding pain in his ribs and stomach as his muscles protested every action he took. He bit back the cries of agony that threatened to slip from his throat with limited success as he clung to Julian’s arm, hobbling as quickly as they could after the Witcher’s long strides.

Julian’s jaw hung slack though he kept his lips closed as best he was able. The joint protested his efforts to close his mouth properly, even as he tried to work it by clenching the muscles that seemed indifferent to his efforts. As he kept his hand over Mieczyk’s two on his elbow, he mused that they must indeed look quite the pair, wincing with every step he took on bruised feet that had swollen in the boots he was forced into. He dreaded taking them off more, the lack of support sure to make the pain worse.

Finally they entered what must have been the throne room. The smell of dust belied its infrequent use despite the torches lit on the pillars. The lack of windows, aside from some very small ones close to the ceiling, only served to confirm Julian's initial assessment that the keep was built _into_ the mountain and not just atop it. 

It was dark, even with the torchlight, and Julian could tell that the guard captain was sufficiently intimidated by the grand room. Though, Julian was pretty sure that this room was little used. _Perfect,_ he thought grimly, _we're a special occasion._

They were directed to the center of the room to stand as the Witcher who led them stood a little ahead. Mieczyk wished they hadn't had to walk so far and so circuitously through the keep, but there was nothing to be done. He also wished that he was back home or that pigs could fly. But if wishes were horses then Julian and Mieczyk would have ridden away from this nightmare a month ago.

They waited several long minutes. The guard captain became even more anxious and agitated as they stood in the dark chamber. Every noise carried. Julian absently wondered how the acoustics sounded, whether it would be a worthy concert hall. It was a shame he couldn't test it and likely would never get the opportunity.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a door in the shadowed corner of the room banged open and three men came through. The sudden motion startled the three men waiting, though the Witcher was unaffected. 

The first one through the door was the giant man from the courtyard. He was followed by another absolutely enormous fellow, though he stood a little closer to the height of the Witcher who had led the way to the throne room. A horrible scar streaked across this new man's face, curling from temple to chin making a detour through his lip so that a little yellowed fang showed through.

The final man who entered was nearly as large as the one with extensive facial scarring, and was nearly as broad across. Snow-white hair was pulled off his face and tied in the back, the rest falling across his sturdy shoulders. Fierce golden eyes shone like a cat's in the night from the dark. This must be the Great Wolf of Kaer Morhen, king of Kaedwen and warlord of the north.

The Great Wolf scowled at the three in the middle of the room as he took his seat in the plain but imposing throne, and addressed two of the other Witchers by name, "Drummond, Mordred, there had best be a good reason why I've been called from an important council meeting to address this matter."

The man who led them into the room nodded curtly, "Aye. This is the captain of the Redanian guard sent with their tribute and request for alliance. Along with the tribute are these two," He gestured at Julian and Mieczyk. "A bard and his manservant."

The Great Wolf raised an eyebrow, inspecting the three silently for a moment, "I see. Thank you, Mordred." Julian and Mieczyk exchanged a sideways glance at one another. The Great Wolf was… _polite?_

_That_ story certainly hadn't reached Redania.

The scarred man stood at the Great Wolf’s right, and his nostrils flared for a moment before he turned and murmured something to the man on the throne. A hardness stole over the Great Wolf’s face as two nearly imperceptible nods came from Mordred and the other, who Mieczyk guessed was Drummond. 

The Great Wolf replied equally as quietly, his lips barely moving as he surveyed the Redanians in front of him. Drummond turned and exited through the same door in the corner and Mieczyk felt a knot of anxiety start in his stomach. Something was wrong. If the Great Wolf denied the tribute, what would happen to them? If they had to endure another month of travel at the hands of the Redanian guards, if they were found wanting and sent back to King Vizimir…

The Great Wolf caught Julian’s eye and if he hadn't been trained to read the room, monitor minor facial expressions, he would have missed the softening around the Witcher’s eyes, the small smile that graced his lips as he spoke, “A bard, you say? Well, bard, what do you do? Sing? Play? Recite poetry?" The Great Wolf rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the white, stubbled hair of his beard scratching his callouses lightly.

Julian froze as he parted his lips and realized he couldn't answer. He glanced at Mieczyk, frightened. The terrifying man in front of them had so far not shown any signs of unnecessary aggression but what if Julian couldn't speak? Mieczyk returned the nervous glance. He'd been the one to speak earlier but…they couldn't say Julian was useless _now,_ could they? He couldn't speak, couldn't _sing._ He had no instrument. What use was a bard who couldn’t perform?

"Jaskier the bard is…He would normally sing as well as play but the journey has been hard on his voice and we did not bring a lute. Currently he is…he's unable to speak, my lord," Mieczyk said, his chest feeling as though it were trembling independent from the rest of his body.

The scarred man still at the Wolf’s shoulder hummed, before speaking, “Jaskier the bard? I’ve heard of you. He sings and plays well—songs are a little on the fanciful side but I think we can forgive the creative license.” His voice was like if a dog had chosen to speak instead of bark and there was a brassy, metallic edge to it and Jaskier desperately wanted to know what the man sounded like when he sang. Yet another thing he would never find out, he thought to himself with resignation. 

He almost wanted to be offended at the comment about his music, but Jaskier _did_ take artistic liberties with details when he wrote his songs, so perhaps the man’s assessment wasn’t so inaccurate. And it seemed to be complimentary. Apparently he had fans among the Witchers. Who knew?

“Have I need for a bard, Eskel?” The Great Wolf asked the scarred man who smiled—it made him look somehow both fierce and… _approachable?_ The tone in the Great Wolf’s voice was nearly _teasing,_ if Jaskier could believe his ears.

“Need, want,” The scarred Witcher—the Great Wolf had _just_ said his name, what was it? Astar? Estell? Something like that—bobbed his head from side to side noncommittally, “After a certain point the difference stops mattering. I think we ought to keep them.” 

Jaskier couldn’t quite stop the sigh of relief that wheezed out of his chest. He’d leave behind Julian of Lettenhove and just be Jaskier the Bard of the Great Wolf’s court if it meant he and Mieczyk would not have to do…anything else.

“Very well then. We’ll keep the bard and his manservant. And the rest. And _you_ may leave immediately,” The Great Wolf turned hard eyes to the guard captain who, if Jaskier’s nose was to be believed, had just pissed himself. _Ew._

“Very well, my lord. Right away,” The guard saluted. “I will take news of your acceptance of Redania’s alliance to king Vizimir immediately.” He then promptly turned tail and practically _fled_ the throne room, his stance wide to avoid chafing in his soaked trousers.

“Can’t believe he had enough in him to piss himself twice,” Mordred grumbled, “must have kept very hydrated on the way up.

“Hm. _Vizimir._ Maybe I should look into changing my name, hm, Eskel? Can’t have two kings ruling at the same time with similar names. We might get confused.” The Great Wolf chuckled, laugh lines wrinkling around his eyes. As soon as the door slammed shut behind the Redanian guard captain it was as if a tension lifted from the room, a lightness entering instead. That…didn’t sound right, but Jaskier and Mieczyk didn’t know enough about being prisoners of barbaric warlords to dispute it.

“You change your name, Vesemir, and I think Lambert would have a _fit.”_ Eskel said in return,   
“Where’re we putting the bard and his man?”

The Great Wolf—who’s name was, apparently, Vesemir, and yes Jaskier could see that being a bit confusing in verbal communication with regards to Vizimir—hummed and looked at Jaskier who was still holding up Mieczyk and tilted his head to the side.

“I think we’ve rooms on the ground floor, yes? Put them there when they’re done. Drummond was sent to fetch Ashwood and Triss. I want them seen to as soon as possible.” Vesemir stood from his throne and looked down at the two men—well, down was a bit of an overstatement as other than the fact that the great chair sat at the far end of the room, it wasn’t exactly on a dais or anything. It was just big. “You boys will not be harmed here. I swear it.” With that, The Great Wolf stalks out of the room in a gentle woosh of his heavy cape.

Jaskier was very nearly willing to believe the man, despite every bone in his body telling him to run, run quickly and never return, fearful of the air of _predator_ that radiated off of each and every Witcher they’d come into contact with thus far. 

Eskel, the scarred witcher, pressed his lips into a line—except for the part that was carved out by his scars, anyway—as he looked them both over, “Right, I think I know which rooms he was talking about. Mordred, I can take them from here. You and Drummond go back to the yearlings. They’ve probably gotten themselves into ten different kinds of mischief by now.”

The biggest of the three—Desmond? Drummond? _Ascot had literally just said his name, what was it?_ —let out a low grumble, “Unlikely. I left them with Helga.” All three Witchers shuddered and Jaskier suddenly wondered if maybe the Witchers weren’t the most fearsome thing in this keep. He wondered what kind of beast Hegla was. Perhaps they kept a dragon beneath the keep, in the depths of the mountain. Jaskier was certain he’d heard a story like that before, about a young mage and a prince and a king who hated magic, but maybe he was getting his fairy tales mixed up again. Might have been an old sorcerer and noble king…hmm.

Drummond and Mordred exited the chamber side by side, their mouths moving but no sound carried, even in the cavernous hall. 

This left Jaskier and Mieczyk standing in the throne room with Eskel. The silence was oppressive as the two young men waited for Eskel to talk, or move, or…or _anything._

“Right. Can you walk?” Eskel finally asked, looking at Mieczyk.

Mieczyk initially nodded then stopped, opening his mouth, though he said nothing. Jaskier patted his hand comfortingly and the smaller man found his words, “I-...don’t know.” His voice was quiet with the admission. Getting to Kaer Morhen had been torture but walking to the throne room itself had been a nightmare even in comparison to that. Could he shuffle the distance to whatever cells they would be kept in?

“Right,” Eskel nodded, seeming to come to some sort of decision with himself as he stepped forward. Without preamble, he whisked Mieczyk up into his huge, scarred, muscular arms.

Mieczyk cried out, immediately trying to push away from Eskel, unable to quite verbalize what was wrong. The Witcher’s hold on him was tight, which was probably to compensate for Mieczyk being lighter than anticipated, but in holding him so tightly he was putting pressure on the twisted joints and tendons of his legs, as well as all of Mieczyk’s injuries from having been beaten within an inch of his life and then dragged behind a cart for nearly half a month.

Jaskier’s heart rate spiked and he rushed forward, heedless of the pain in his feet and legs as he pulled at the man’s great arms to make him let Mieczyk go. He even made an effort to shout and curse him out, though the words were rasped and more breath than voice as the few sounds scraped his already destroyed throat raw. He tasted blood as he snarled and kicked the beast of a man who held his friend high up off the ground.

“What the fuck? Calm down!” Eskel’s voice was hard as Jaskier kicked and beat on the man, continuing to do his best to shout at him as Mieczyk tried to wriggle out of the hold. This only caused Eskel to tighten his grip, making the small man in his arms cry out again in distress.

Three people enter through the door that The Great Wolf had left through in a rush. 

Had either Jaskier or Mieczyk been in a place to make any observations they would have seen that one looked to be another Witcher, snow-white hair and death-pale skin, and though his features were sharper, they were similar enough in shape to Eskel’s that the two could have been brothers. Behind him were a woman and a man who appeared more human than any of the Witchers they had encountered so far. 

Well, the woman looked human, anyway. She had a soft cloud of chestnut hair that complimented her tan skin. she wore a simple looking dress made of fine fabric—silk, if Jaskier had given it a guess, though he was a little distracted by trying to make Eskel put Mieczyk down and stop hurting him. 

The man was clearly elven, pointed ears visible due to the style of his hair: long hair pulled back into a tail with hair from nape to just above his ears shaved close to the scalp in an undercut. His tawny skin was earthy next to the meadow green of his simple linen shirt tucked into plain, dark canvas trousers. 

“Eskel, what is going on?” The white-haired Witcher asked, voice sharp as his golden eyes glanced between Jaskier, Mieczyk and the scarred Witcher. Jaskier’s fight continued, unheeding of their audience, his wrecked voice screeching and scraping as he kicked and beat at Eskel. So close to the man, Jaskier realized he wasn’t terribly much shorter than the man after all, their shoulders nearly at a height.

“I- _fucking stop!_ Vesemir told me to get them to the rooms here on the bottom floor and he said he couldn’t walk!” Eskel said, bringing his shoulder up to protect his face from Jaskier’s assault as he gestured with Mieczyk.

“Lilit’s balls, Eskel, _put him down!”_ The man with pointed ears snapped, and Eskel glared at him for a moment, effectively ignoring Jaskier’s continued assault before he settled Mieczyk back onto his feet.

Mieczyk immediately collapsed, the stress of the ordeal, the pain of being held and then the _worse_ pain of being set back onto his feet too much to bear. Jaskier dropped to his knees next to his friend, attempting to catch him before he landed too heavily and jostled the rest of his injuries. Mieczyk pushed back against Jaskier as he came up to protect him and Jaskier did his best to calm his friend without touching him, which was a lot harder without the use of his voice.

“What happened to them?” The woman asked, her voice concerned though softer than the three men’s had been.

“They smell like blood—what the _fuck,_ Eskel?” The white-haired Witcher growled, his voice gravelly and rough and both Jaskier and Mieczyk flinched at his irritation.

“I don’t fucking _know,_ Geralt! They came like this—fucking Redania sent them to us.” Eskel threw his hands into the air in exasperation, “The fucking feral one’s a godsdamn bard.” Something about him seemed stiffer, more tense than before, but Jaskier was too focused on trying to get Mieczyk to breathe properly again.

“Oh will all of you just _stop,”_ The woman asked, her voice firm but not sharp, “Honestly.” She sighed with a huff before kneeling down near Jaskier—though outside of arm’s reach. “What’s wrong? Is he injured?”

Jaskier gave her a look, but at least she’d _asked_ first. 

“Right, no, that was a stupid question, you’re completely right,” Her voice held a bit of a wry amusement to it and he felt something in his shoulders relax infanitesimally at it. Mieczyk was still cowering, curling in on himself and shaking as she continued, “You– you can’t speak.” She realized after a moment when Jaskier remained silent. “Right. Okay. I can work around this but I need your permission—it would require me skimming your surface thoughts and we can communicate that way, alright?”

Jaskier clenched his fists against his thighs. A sorceress. Right. That made sense. Of course the Great Wolf would have a sorceress. He swallowed, the motion causing him to wince and nearly choke as the pain overwhelmed him for a moment.

“You don’t have to say yes. We can try other things.” She offered, clearly seeing him struggle. He shook his head.

Summoning everything inside him, he barely managed to whisper, “Do it. Help me help him.”

She nodded, tilting her head to the side. For a moment he wondered if she was going to do anything. Then he felt almost like a tickle on the inside of his skull—reminiscent of knocking on a door lightly to ask for entrance into a room. He imagined he could open that door and let her in a little.

He tried very hard to think about what was most important right now. His voice was blown out—throat shot. Mieczyk had a congenital defect with his legs. They were both exhausted, injured heavily, and had been dragged across two countries to get here. They were _terrified._ Mieczyk had been lifted into Eskel’s arms unceremoniously and it had hurt him and made the fear worse. This was still better than dealing with the Redanians. At least they weren’t dead. He wished they could go home. He wished this had never happened. He hoped Vizimir choked on a slug.

Triss coughed delicately and Jaskier remembered she was supposedly able to read his thoughts. He flushed, shaking his head, “Sorry.” He tried to grate out.

“No, no you’re fine. Jaskier or Julian? Just _think_ the answer.”

_Jaskier,_ he thought at her, _Julian doesn’t exist here._

“Ah. Well then, Jaskier, thank you.” She smiled at him kindly, “No, it was…you have quite the talent for visualization—I suppose that comes with being a bard. I only figured it indecorous to laugh at that last particular thought considering the circumstances,” Her voice was soft as she spoke, just the two of them. It was nice, pleasant even. Calming. He could almost forget about the three other men in the room. 

_Almost,_ except the hair on the back of his neck was still raised like the hackles on a dog, constantly aware of the presence of the two Witchers standing behind them though they made no sound. He had already learned they didn’t seem to need to be audible to communicate with one another.

“Alright. Mieczyk, is that his name?” She asked, gesturing minimally towards the man on the ground and Jaskier nodded. “Alright, Jaskier and Mieczyk. My name is Triss. Triss Merigold. This is Ashwood of Daevon,” She indicated the auburn-haired man. “He and I are the main medical staff here at the keep.” So close Jaskier noted that the green of Ashwood’s shirt matched the color of his eyes almost exactly, and that the trousers he wore were tucked into scuffed and dusty boots, speckled with flecks of hay and sawdust.

Ashwood—that _couldn’t_ be the name she gave for him but Jaskier couldn’t think of any other names that it might have been and he just _could not remember_ —nodded and smiled as he was introduced, coming to kneel next to Triss. He was far less intimidating now, and Jaskier felt slightly more at ease. That relaxation felt dangerous and he clenched his fist reflexively against it.

“We want to help. Is there anything we can do to get you both somewhere more comfortable and perhaps a bit less…dusty?” She wrinkled her nose a little and Ashwood glanced away, his cheeks darkening a little.

“I did my best,” He muttered. “Not my fault Lambert’s impatient.”

“So I heard,” Triss seemed amused but also admonishing at the same time. “Anyway, what we need to do is get you both somewhere more comfortable. We have rooms where you won’t be bothered unless you want someone to bother you, and Ashwood and I would be the only people who would visit without an invitation but only because we need to make sure you’re both healthy. Is that something you think we can do?”

Jaskier doesn’t know. But he wants to say yes, so he nodded, rasping out the strongest, “Please,” he can. It was barely audible, but they seemed to hear him as Ashwood nods in return.

Mieczyk breathed quickly, too quickly, curled in on himself and leaning towards Jaskier though still not allowing him to touch. Everything _hurt._ There were so many strange people and he didn’t know what they were going to do, he could barely hear over the blood pounding in his ears and the pain searing through his bones. A woman was speaking with Jaskier and there was a man whose voice cut through the rest, gentle but firm, guiding Mieczyk to listen.

“Mieczyk? My name is Ashwood,” There was no accompanying touch and Mieczky pulled his unseeing gaze away from his lap to look up at the cool green shirt, to the man’s kind face. Freckles across his skin speckled like reverse stars over the night sky, and his bright eyes were nothing but concern and kindness. Full lips are pursed into a thin line but there’s a tilt to the corners of his mouth that show he’s trying to smile, to show that Mieczyk isn’t in danger right this moment. And Mieczyk… 

Mieczyk swallows around the fear. Nods. “Ashwood.” He repeats.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Ashwood says, not moving, not coming closer, not touching Mieczyk, just speaking. His smile is genuine now, “I know there’s a lot happening right now, and you’re in a lot of pain. But I need to be able to look you over, and you need to calm down just a little. Do you think you would be able to take a few breaths for me?”

Mieczyk took a sharp inhale, quick and painful sounding and almost immediately let it whoosh back out of his lungs as the action quickly caused his ribs to scream. He did it twice more, and Ashwood nodded.

“Excellent. How about a little slower?” Ashwood’s voice was soothing as he talked Mieczyk through slowing his breaths, getting him to settle down. No one touched Mieczyk and Jaskier found his breaths evening out with the gentle instructions as well. 

Triss reached forward and touched the ground between them, at least a foot between her and Jaskier’s knee, getting his attention with the small movement alone, “Jaskier, would you stand with me? We won’t leave the room, you can keep watching Mieczyk. I just want to check you over and let Ashwood take care of Mieczyk, okay?” Triss’ voice flows over him like cool water on a hot day and Jaskier nods again, stiffly. He doesn’t want to but…It will be easier if he does. They will take care of Mieczyk and then he can continue protecting him and they can figure out what to do from here.

Triss stands slowly, her hand reaching down to help Jaskier up. He takes it, using her only as a balance point. Though her grip is strong enough that he’s pretty sure she could have lifted him up off the ground without his doing anything. He lets himself be led away from Mieczyk—not far, just a few feet, less than his own body length away from where he’d knelt beside his friend. Triss positions herself so that he can still see Mieczyk, working on breathing still with Ashwood— _seriously,_ that _cannot_ be the man’s name, why was it the only thing Jaskier was coming up with?

“Alright, let me take a look at you,” She says with a gentle look on her face as she reaches for Jaskier’s hands slowly. He lets her take them, his eyes not leaving Mieczyk as he answers her questions.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? Things are getting better! It's gonna be _fine_ I promise!
> 
> At least for a little while anyway. This is the "comfort" part of the hurt/comfort I like in my stories. We'll get back to the hurting bit in a while, but let's have some nice gentle things for our boys for a smidge, yeah?

Mieczyk willed himself not to flinch away from Ashwood as the mage knelt beside him. He didn’t reach out, didn’t touch and Mieczyk wasn’t sure how he felt about that. A touch he could brace for—he would hate it, but he could. This courtesy was disquieting. But the calm way the elven mage spoke, the directions to breathe slowly— _in and out and in and out_ —paced with Ashwood’s own in- and exhales, smothered the upset, the panic, and the pain. His instruction was a blanket of snow, muffling the sounds of the world for Mieczyk’s mind. Mieczyk felt himself ease into the pattern and relax infinitesimally.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and watched as Jaskier was led away by the other mage, her chestnut hair curling in a pleasant cloud around her shoulders as she spoke softly, though Jaskier remained silent. Mieczyk swallowed as he watched them, his breath catching and holding in his throat as he tracked their steps.

Ashwood spoke again, his soft voice drawing Mieczyk’s attention back to the tawny-skinned man as he spoke his name. The mage followed Mieczyk’s line of sight across the short distance to where Triss and Jaskier stood. Triss gently ran her fingers over the marks on Jaskier’s wrists and the bruising on his arms (at least, what she could reach while he still had his doublet on). _“Ah.”_ Ashwood’s vocalization was knowing as he returned his gaze to Mieczyk, “He will be fine, Mieczyk. Triss will take care of him.” He smiled and Mieczyk _hated_ that he felt at ease because of it. 

Mieczyk shook his head slowly for no reason other than to do it. Taking this as a denial of his statement, Ashwood continued, “I assure you, she is a trusted colleague and excellent physician. And _were_ she to do something to harm him, I might have a trick or two up my own sleeves,” He wiggled his fingers slightly causing tiny blue-white sparks to flicker between them gently as his smile turned more playful than comforting.

Mieczyk sighed, nodding as his eyes tracked the dance of electricity between Ashwood’s fingers. “Alright,” He spoke the word slowly, drawing it out over several beats. “I… _don’t touch me.”_

Ashwood nodded, drawing his hands back even further. “I wouldn’t dare unless you told me it was alright or I thought your life was in danger,” he explained. Mieczyk nodded, as if that solved something. It didn’t, because he knew in order to be treated for his wounds he would need to be examined but… He _couldn’t_.

“I just want–” He whispered suddenly, surprising himself with the cracking words, _“I just want to go home.”_

A small, soft sound wormed its way through Ashwood’s chest and out his throat, seemingly unbidden—the mage clenched his hand at his side, his face crumpled into something pitying and heartbroken. Mieczyk turned away; there were no words of placation, nothing to tell Mieczyk his wanting was reasonable _or_ unrealistic. No comfort or cold resignation to his fate.

After a moment, Ashwood spoke again, “I…would very much like to see to your injuries, and get you somewhere more comfortable than the floor. If you’ll allow me.”

Mieczyk bowed his head, both to hide the wetness of his eyes and to bow to the reality of the fact that he could not leave this place. He was trapped and hurting and scared and alone but for Jaskier still beside him. 

He had not felt so small and alone since he had been sold to Edwina at age eight, scared of the experiments the hedgewitch had proposed to help fix his legs, scared of a future without the only family he’d ever known, despite how painful living there had been. He was nearly twenty-one summers old and he felt as though he were a _child_ again, wishing to hide behind his mother’s skirts, holding onto her apron strings for fear of being pulled away by a monster in the woods.

He had no home, not anymore. Nowhere to go aside from wherever he and Jaskier would be staying in this great, cold stone keep. He just hoped they were put in adjacent cells, for if he were to be _truly_ alone? He couldn’t face that.

“Alright.” He agreed, reluctantly. “I… _it hurts,”_ He admitted, barely above a whisper. He nearly hoped Ashwood couldn’t hear him. Ashwood nodded, however, and Miecyzk knew it was a vain hope anyway. 

“I’ll bet. No offense, but you look like _shit,”_ Ashwood’s joke was stiff, awkward and uncomfortable but he was trying and Mieczyk appreciated that it was no longer pity, no longer concern that laced his voice.

“You try getting across two countries on legs that don’t work,” Mieczyk bit out, using the excuse to be wry and sour to hide the brokenness inside of him. It was easier than he’d thought, and perhaps he could rely on it—protect himself from future pain.

“Alright, good point,” Ashwood chuckled a little, still awkward but it was easier than comfort and Mieczyk relaxed even more. “What hurts the most?”

Mieczyk mentally cataloged his various injuries, weighed them against the conditions he’d lived with his whole life, and tried to decide what needed addressing first. He wasn’t going to be able to stand, let alone walk, his legs weak from disuse and his feet still healing from the wounds the guards inflicted when he was forced to give up Julia– _Jaskier’s_ position. 

Being carried might not be an option, either, considering how much pain he’d been in when the Witcher, Eskel, lifted him from the ground. Though the pain had been compounded by the terror that had struck him at suddenly being manhandled by a stranger. Perhaps if he were aware it were going to happen, if it wasn’t a _Witcher…_

“My feet,” He said, softly, “They…were injured before the journey.” He didn’t want to explain what he’d gone through, not even to the mage-physician before him.

Ashwood made a noise of acknowledgement, and tilted his head slightly, “May I see them?”

Having Ashwood look meant removing the shoes, which Mieczyk wouldn’t be able to reach to take off. They weren’t the soft-leather slip-on style that he’d had at ho– at the Lettenhove Estate, he couldn’t just toe them off with a gentle application of pressure to the back of the heel. They had been laced on, and he couldn’t bend that far over to unlace them with his ribs broken as they were. This meant letting Ashwood do it.

Mieczyk froze in indecision and Ashwood pulled in a slow, deep breath through his nose. This prompted Mieczyk to follow the action with his own inhale, despite the shaking in his chest. He held the breath until Ashwood let his own out, having filled his lungs to the capacity his ribs would allow. 

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” Ashwood said after several more slow breaths, “but in order to treat you, I need to see your injuries. I need to figure out what needs to be done to make sure you’re brought back to full health.”

Mieczyk knew and understood this, of course he did. Not only was he familiar with doctors and mages working on him and requiring his compliance in order to do their jobs—no matter how much he would rather just be _left alone_ —but also he knew that being unable to walk again, even in his limited capacity, would be harder for Jaskier in the long run. They probably wouldn’t be able to escape the confines of the keep, even if Mieczyk hadn’t been made the way he was, but if he wasn’t totally dependent on his friend, at least, it would be better. Easier.

“You…you’ll have to take off my shoes. I can’t– can’t reach them,” He mutters, looking away from Ashwood, away from where Jaskier and Triss stood off to the side, away from the two Witchers gesturing between themselves, no sound escaping their barely moving lips.

Ashwood nodded, “Alright. I’m going to go ahead and reach for your feet.” As he said it, he did as he described. It helped, a bit. Mieczyk still flinched as work-rough fingers brushed his ankle, though more in fear than in pain, “Is this okay?”

“Fine,” Mieczyk bit out, clenching his jaw tight, “Just…get it over with.” He braced as Ashwood’s long fingers deftly unlaced the waxed cords that tied the shoes to his feet, first one foot and then the other.

“Okay, I’m going to lift your right foot and set it into my lap to remove your shoe. I’m going to do my best not to tug on anything but this will _probably_ hurt. I apologize,” Ashwood said, looking genuinely apologetic as his fingers worked around the edge of the shoe leather, pulling it away from Mieczyk’s skin. Mieczyk shifted his arms to either side of his body to brace against the floor as Ashwood eased the shoe off his foot. Sweat stuck the skin to the leather, as did the fresh blood from the wounds on his feet, wounds that refused to heal and reopened as he walked to the throne room on Jaskier’s arm. 

A pained whine squealed through Mieczyk’s teeth and he pinched his eyes shut against the stinging agony and chafing. Ashwood let out a hiss of his own as Mieczyk’s foot came free, but he said nothing other than, “You said you received these wounds before the journey to Kaedwen?”

Mieczyk nodded, afraid that if he tried to speak he’d only scream.

“Right,” Ashwood breathed, setting aside the shoe and settling Mieczyk’s foot into his lap gently. “Okay, Let me get the other one off now so we don’t have to do this again. I’m reaching for your other foot now.” The mage didn’t have to lean over the newly freed foot in order to reach the other one. It was a small blessing that was quickly forgotten as the same agony was duplicated in Mieczyk’s other foot.

_"Fuck,”_ Mieczyk whined, doubling over as much as his ribs would allow before grunting in pain at that as well. “Fuck it hurts.”

Ashwood made a sympathetic sound that was as distressed as the one Mieczyk made, “Alright, that part is done. It’s over.”

Mieczyk clenched his fingers against the floor, scraping the calloused tips against the grain of the hard, smooth wood, worn by hundreds of years of feet walking across it. His feet felt as though they were on fire, like he was walking across ice, like they were being stabbed through anew. It was _torture_ , and he could say that with absolute authority now.

“How long have you been wearing those shoes?” Ashwood’s voice was strained but still calm, still low and soothing and Mieczyk fought to get his breathing back under control as he fought past the sting of tears.

“Only a few hours,” he bit out. “Was barefoot most of the way here.”

“Mm, that’s what I was afraid of,” Ashwood muttered, mostly to himself. He gently held Mieczyk’s food in both hands, careful of the location of the wounds so as not to aggravate or irritate them. 

He maneuvered the appendage around to examine the entrance and exit wounds on the top and bottom of Mieczyk’s foot. “All the way through?” He asked. It was possibly a question for clarification, possibly just a quiet, disbelieving observation, it was hard to tell. Mieczyk nodded anyway.

“Long knife,” He grunted, shifting his weight to one arm even though his entire torso and shoulders protested the movement so he could bring a hand up to his face. “Just cause they don’t work doesn’t mean they’re numb.” His words escaped through clenched teeth; he pressed against the bruises on his face to distract himself from the pain in the rest of his body.

“Of course,” Ashwood breathed, “Right. You’re not walking until these are healed completely. Which means, unfortunately, you’ll have to be carried.” Ashwood’s face was a sympathetic frown as he settled both feet back down onto his lap, “I need to know if that is going to be painful as well so we can mitigate as much of it as we can.”

Mieczyk barked a humorless laugh, _“Everything_ is going to be painful.”

“Okay, _how_ painful? What can we do to minimize it?”

Mieczyk tried to think through it all again, “I…my ribs are broken. I can’t be carried the way…the way _he_ tried,” He indicated Eskel with his head as he spoke quietly, remembering the excruciating pain he’d been in. Perhaps not _all_ of it had been fear after all. He was pretty sure he imagined the sudden tension that caused the two Witchers still embroiled in what appeared to be a heated, though silent, conversation to fall still momentarily. “I…I don’t know how…“

Mieczyk had no idea how he was going to be moved without it hurting. He couldn’t walk, he couldn’t be picked up and carried. Everything _hurt_.

Ashwood just nodded, turning from his visual assessment of Mieczyk towards where Triss was still speaking with Jaskier. The woman murmured to Jaskier softly as she addressed the bruises on his face and tenderness in Jaskier’s jaw. Ashwood called out to her—“Triss, the stretcher is still in my quarters, yes?”

Triss politely disengaged from her conversation with Jaskier to think for a moment, “Should be, yes. Are we going to need it?”

Ashwood nodded, a grim smile on his face as he tried to maintain a levity that there was no foothold for anymore. “I’ll go fetch someone to get it," he said, bracing to get up.

“I’ll do it.” The white haired Witcher broke off from his conversation with Eskel with a head shake, “Do we need anything else?” His face was stoic, impassive as he spoke and his voice a level, even tone that sounded like carriage wheels rolling along the gravel drive.

“There’s an empty notebook on my desk. If you’d fetch that as well, Geralt, I’d appreciate it,” Ashwood said with a kind smile and the man simply nodded at him. Nothing in his expression changed as he headed out the door that had brought Jaskier and Mieczyk into the room.

Triss turned back to Jaskier, fussing over his face and feeling his throat as Ashwood returned back to Mieczyk. “I think any further examination will have to wait until we’re somewhere more private.”

A bolt of frigid fear shot through Mieczyk as he swallowed thickly. He stared at the shape of his thin toes against the fabric of Ashwood’s shirt. They _wouldn’t_ …This Ashwood, _he_ wouldn’t…would he?

No. No, there was no sign they would be as cruel as the Redanians, not just yet. The stories were inaccurate. By how much, Mieczyk didn’t know yet, but…they _had_ to be.

* * *

Geralt walked through the halls of Kaer Morhen as quickly as he could without running. He was on a _mission_. He needed to get the stretcher from Ashwood’s office as well as the notebook and bring it back so they could get the two newest residents of the keep settled in.

They looked so _scared_ and had smelled even more afraid than that, clearly putting on a brave face in front of everyone. One of them smelled of blood, though Geralt hadn’t been able to see any injuries until Ashwood had taken off the shoes of the smaller man. Both were bruised and hurting. 

Geralt was angry that they’d been hurt so much but more than that he was _sad_. No one should have to go through that much pain. He rubbed absently at the junction of hip and thigh, feeling the old wound that caused him daily discomfort and frequent pain of his own, frowning slightly before shaking his head.

He took comfort in the fact that the two young men were safe now. No one would harm them here, and they would be taken care of by the best healers in Kaedwen. They’d have regular meals, and be comfortable again.

Geralt’s heart ached with the memory of the young man's quiet plea to go home, as though it wasn’t an option. Certainly as soon as he was well, he would be able to travel back to wherever the two had come from, wouldn’t he? He nodded to himself, resolute. Yes: as soon as the bard and his companion were well again they could set up a plan to travel wherever they wanted, including visiting home.

Vesemir had hired the bard, based on what Eskel told him in their conversation, but obviously they would both have free range to go wherever he wanted when they weren’t busy doing…whatever bards did. Vesemir didn’t require a bard, after all. 

Well, or did he? What did bards do other than sing and play music for entertainment? They’d never had a bard in Kaer Morhen before. Geralt had seen them in taverns across the land as he’d travelled the Path, before this whole “Great Wolf” nonsense had started. He thought bards fine entertainment, when he wasn’t overwhelmed by his senses after a hunt, or surrounded by loud, smelly crowds. He wasn’t sure what they did in courts other than play for banquets, but he was sure he’d learn.

Well, he’d learn as soon as the bard was better. Triss had examined his throat and the man hadn’t said but a few rasped words in the time Geralt had been in the room. It would be a shame if he weren’t able to sing, but perhaps they could get him an instrument. Geralt wondered what kind he played as he ran his thumb absently over the red-stained skin on the fingers of his left hand. 

He flushed and shook his head, mentally chastising himself for his silly, romantic thoughts. The man had just arrived, was thin and injured and needed medical treatment. He did not need Geralt mooning over the possibility of…Anything! Geralt was a Witcher of ninety-four years old! He was beyond this, surely.

Geralt reached the door to Ashwood’s rooms and remembered suddenly that he was here for a _reason_. Silly of him, how could he have forgotten already? He opened the door to the room, located the stretcher and shimmied it out from its location, flagging down a passing yearling to assist him with bringing it down. Before he left, he snagged the empty notebook Ashwood had indicated from the desk.

His objectives collected, and the yearling—Rafe, a lanky young man, with warm-toned tan skin and short-cropped red hair (who Geralt was fairly certain had been training with Mordred and Drummond earlier in the day)—wrangled to assist with navigating the canvas stretcher down to the throne room again, Geralt closed the door behind them. They then made their way back to where Ashwood and Triss were doing their best to help and welcome their guests to their new, safe home. 

* * *

The Witcher Ashwood called Geralt returned to the throne room, accompanied by a lankier man who held the other end of the stretcher poles so that they were unlikely to hit anyone. Mieczyk tracked their movements warily, recognizing the lanky man from the courtyard—the one who had made the comment about Mieczyk and Jaskier being a bouquet sent with the tribute. (It was pretty funny, actually, now that Mieczyk was fairly certain that they weren’t about to be slain on the spot.)

Jaskier and Triss finished their examination and Jaskier had seated himself at Mieczyk’s side, taking hold of his hand and lacing their fingers together as they sat on the floor. Mieczyk squeezed Jaskier's hand gently, an attempt to offer comfort where there was none.

Sure they were no longer with the Redanian guards, and the Great Wolf seemed less a horrible monster than the stories had made him out to be, but they were by no means _safe_.

He eyed Eskel, who stood in the corner and glowered, anxiety twitching in his stomach at the large man’s tense form. The man’s golden gaze seemed to be directed specifically at the two mages, who stood off to the side and exchanged notes about Jaskier and Mieczyk, Ashwood jotting them down in the notebook Geralt had brought back. 

Mieczyk didn’t know _what_ the mages had done to the man, or if he just didn’t like them, but he was fairly certain they hadn’t deserved it. If their behavior towards Mieczyk and Jaskier was anything to go by, Ashwood and Triss were at the very least professional, if not the friendliest faces they’d seen since leaving ho– since leaving Lettenhove. And they worked for the Great Wolf, so they clearly didn’t mind Witchers. Perhaps Eskel didn’t like mages?

The stretcher was brought over and with some very careful maneuvering and a few pained grunts from Mieczyk, he was settled onto the canvas that stretched between the poles. It was certainly sturdy, and he figured it probably had to be considering that it was likely made to carry Witchers dense with muscle and covered in armor, if it carried anyone. Mieczyk was _definitely_ not a Witcher, in either size or skill, and certainly wasn’t wearing armor.

Once he was situated on the stretcher, the lanky Witcher and Geralt lifted it easily. The red-head behind him whistled low, muttering a soft, “Shit, he ain’t way _nothin’,”_ before Ashwood silenced him with a quick smack to the shoulder. 

“Freya save me, Rafe, you learned _no_ manners on the Path, did you?” Ashwood chastised, though his tone was fond. “Just carry the man to his rooms and try not to offend him on the way there.”

“Yes, Am– uh, Ashwood. Sorry.”

Then they were moving.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys' introduction to Kaer Morhen continues to be fraught with missteps and upsets but, hey, on the bright side: at least it's not the Redanians.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit short, but I've been assured it is of good quality by other people who I trust despite my own unsureness to this fact. Jaskier and Triss get to have Thoughts and Feelings about what's going on and I _swear_ shit starts getting better for Jask and Miecz. I _promise_ it does.

The trip across the keep was _much_ faster with Mieczyk on a stretcher. Jaskier hadn’t realized how bad Mieczyk’s feet had been, they’d been so caked in mud and dirt on the trip up. He felt terrible that he hadn’t considered trying to leave Mieczyk in the courtyard, or otherwise give him another way to get to the throne room without having to _walk_ like that—perhaps if Jaskier carried him? Jaskier’s feet and legs ached and were sore, but at least he could walk. 

The Witchers and mages took them through quiet, empty corridors. These appeared to be routes specifically to avoid people as they traversed the keep. There were also no stairs or inclines for which Jaskier was grateful as even though he was sure he _could_ handle the stairs, he wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to.

Finally, they reached the thick wooden door that led to their new living space. It was not quite the cell that either Jaskier or Mieczyk had anticipated. In fact, it looked a hell of a lot like a less-well-appointed version of Jaskier’s rooms at Lettenhove. It was also _blue_.

The walls were white washed but with the faintest trace of summer turnsole, giving a pale blue cast and was accented by woad-blue bedding. A stuffed chair covered in navy brocade sat by a large hearth and a small, empty bookshelf. A dark-wood dresser was settled under the window that overlooked a courtyard. 

Jaskier wondered how long they would be allowed to stay here before being moved elsewhere. Surely this was just until they were well enough and they would be transferred to more… _austere_ accommodations.

Cells. He was pretty sure they’d eventually be put into cells. There was just no way they would keep them in such nice guest rooms. The Great Wolf would _need_ these for statesmen or visiting dignitaries or nobles or…people who weren’t sold to him for peace in Redania.

He tried to keep the tension of his thoughts from his hands as he squeezed lightly on Mieczyk’s hand, before releasing it so that the stretcher could pass through the door. Mieczyk was transferred to the bed, sinking into the cushion of it.

“These will be your rooms,” The white-haired Witcher—what had the other called him? Gerard? Geralt? Garibaldi? Something like that—said as they entered fully. Without another word, Grisbond grabbed Estel, or whatever the other Witcher’s name was, and the skinny redhead, and pulled them bodily from the room. Which left Mieczyk and Jaskier with Triss and Ashwood.

(Gods, he was terrible with names. Jaskier would have to ask to make sure Ashwood’s name was actually correct because there was no way he’d guessed his name right.)

With Mieczyk settled, his weight off his feet and his joints cushioned by the incredibly nice mattress—seriously there was no way these were the rooms they were going to be staying in permanently, it was _too nice_ —Jaskier allowed Triss to lead him over to the plush chair and settle him down. Sitting was both the best and worst thing ever, because he was certain as he sank into the cushions of the chair, that he was _never getting back out of it again._

“How are we feeling?” Triss asked. 

Jaskier shrugged, pulling his hands to his face and scrubbing his eyes and cheeks with a fervor that his mother would have been proud of if he’d used the same motion to wash his face in the mornings as a young lad. 

Triss’s soft laughter was almost musical as Jaskier did everything in his repertoire to indicate that he would groan if he could without hurting himself further, “So noted.” She hummed as she set about getting bandages laid out. “If you would?” She indicated his sleeves and he paused.

Jaskier knew his arms were _bad._ Not nearly as bad as Mieczyk’s, not by a long shot. He hadn’t been dragged across the ground behind a cart half-unconscious like his friend had, after all. But they still weren’t _good._ She’d seen some of it in the throne room but…being manhandled across two countries wasn’t going to look great.

He sighed, reaching up to undo the buttons on his doublet and hoped Triss didn’t mind the indecency. She _was_ a medical professional, supposedly. And worked with Witchers who were known to be barbarous, uncouth heathens so…surely Jaskier in his chemise wouldn’t cause her any undue discomfiture.

* * *

Triss Merigold was nothing if she wasn’t a professional. She had worked for kings and courts, been through Aretuza and The Great Wolf’s sieges. She had worked at Ashwood’s side for nearly a year now, and longer even than that helping to patch up wounded Witchers. She knew how to be diplomatic and politic, and her bedside manner was _impeccable_.

So, she did _not_ gasp when she saw the bruises and contusions on Jaskier’s arms as he rolled his sleeves up after throwing his doublet to the side. He treated the bright red fabric with little care, letting it flop messily onto the floor. Perhaps he did not care much for the outfit he wore, and Triss wondered what kept the garment pristine while the rest of his body had taken such a beating on the long journey from Redania.

Triss lowered her shoulders, allowing her spine to straighten as she dipped her head to inspect the newly revealed skin of Jaskier’s arms as he rolled the sleeves of his chemise up. He was littered with abrasions and contusions, though he was mostly clean. His doublet from what she’d observed in the throne room, as well as his trousers and boots, were all nearly spotless. His chemise itself was also unbesmirched by the usual signs of travel; sweat, dust and debris conspicuously absent which told her he changed clothes relatively recently.

Jaskier’s skin had been scrubbed clean, though some dirt still clung to his joints and several of the cuts. His hair was tidy and only recently dried. Where his chemise dipped low, exposing some of the hair on his chest, she could see several more bruises, some already going green, several still quite fresh.

Triss would not ask him to disrobe further, though she had a sinking suspicion he had further bruising under his shirt, on his back, and on his legs if the way he’d settled into the chair gingerly had been any indication. The only outward sign of her displeasure at the state of Jaskier's body was the thin line she pressed her lips into as she observed the injuries. Triss was a _professional_. These young men had been through quite a lot already, based on what she had gleaned from Jaskier’s surface thoughts alone. That, she was sure, was only the bare minimum of what they had been through. 

A startled cry shocked Triss from her musing as she ran her fingers across some of the worst bruising on Jaskier’s arms, her head jerking up to see Mieczyk scrambling across the bed. He toppled over the side and skittered as quickly as his legs and injuries would allow into the corner of the room. Ashwood looked on, the expression on his face horrified and heartbroken, his arm still lightly outstretched from where he’d been reaching for the other man.

Mieczyk was sobbing, his voice edged in panic as he shouted at Ashwood through gasps of air, tucking himself as far into the corner as he could go. Triss was sure that if he could melt into the whitewash itself, he would.

Jaskier immediately attempted to get out of the chair, but Triss laid her hand on his breastbone and gently pressed him back into his seat with a firm shake of her head to keep him quiet and still. While he stayed seated at her silent request, his eyes danced around the room as though assessing threats, focusing in on Ashwood’s presence. Triss watched her friend’s hand clench into a fist as he brought it back close to himself, his face shuttering off as he looked away from Mieczyk cowering in the corner.

Triss’ heart ached. She had seen battle sickness in those she had treated before, and while these two had not been through battle, and she didn’t know what had happened to these two on their way up to Kaer Morhen, why they did not feel safe within the stone walls that buffered the Witchers from the cruel outside world, she knew that look in Jaskier’s eyes, that tone in Mieczyk’s voice. She might never know what happened to these two, but she knew how to handle what was happening now.

Triss salved and treated Jaskier’s bruises and scrapes as best she could before the interruption, and now she moved the supplies on the low table beside the chair, and went to her friend’s side. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, “Ashwood. I believe it is time for us to go.” 

Ashwood pulled his gaze from the small man in the corner of the room, shrieking and shaking as he was watched, his arms over his head as he flinched from unseen attackers, swallowing thickly as his lower lip trembled. 

“Let Jaskier comfort his friend. We can return later.” She said this a little louder and Jaskier rose from his seat as soon as she met his eyes, slowly approaching Mieczyk and whistling a low tune. It wasn’t one Triss was familiar with but it seemed to get Mieczyk’s attention and he slowly quieted, though he did not unspool himself from his cowering position. Triss carefully pulled Ashwood away, leading him out of the room.

* * *

It was a long time before Mieczyk calmed down. Jaskier had tried _everything_ he could think of to sooth his friend, at least as much as he could actually accomplish with his voice wrecked as it was. He held Mieczyk, running his fingers through his hair, gave his best attempt at humming which he’d had to stop almost immediately, whistling (though that had been a bit too loud), and finally settled for just rocking Mieczyk back and forth gently as if he were a mother with a babe.

It hadn’t _really_ worked, but eventually exhaustion set in as Mieczyk worked himself all the way up and then back down. Ashwood and Triss left at some point but Jaskier had stopped paying attention as soon as Triss gave him the signal to go to Mieczyk’s side. 

None of Mieczyk’s wounds were treated like they’d said they were going to do—Jaskier wasn’t sure if it was just that they hadn’t gotten to it yet, or if Ashwood hadn’t actually intended on treating Mieczyk after all. Triss had rubbed some sort of sticky salve on Jaskier’s bruises but really hadn’t done much else.

Maybe it had been naive of Jaskier to think they actually _did_ care. After all, what were he and Mieczyk but glorified prisoners, slaves sold to keep The Great Wolf happy with Redania, barely better than the pillows on the bed with their usefulness. As soon as The Great Wolf realized this, Jaskier was _sure_ they would be tossed out, or killed, or worse: sent back to Redania. 

If he couldn’t heal his throat, if he wasn’t able to _sing_ again, they were out of usefulness unless the Witchers wanted the same sort of entertainment that the Redanian Guard had wanted on the way up.

If that _was_ the case… Well, Jaskier could only hope that it wasn’t.

As it was now, Jaskier sat on the floor of the room they’d been put in, staring at the blue bedspread with his friend cradled on his lap, still rocking back and forth though Mieczyk had fallen asleep quite a while ago.

What would they do? Jaskier could theoretically still play, if need be. He _preferred_ to sing as well as play but he could make it work. At least until they knew if he’d ever sing again. 

He wasn’t sure what he would do if he couldn’t sing. It had been his method of stress relief for _years_ —his whole life, in fact—singing out his troubles, playing and dancing and making merry with others. Without it, what would he turn to? Just playing didn’t allow him to interact with others as well, didn’t let him _express_ himself the same way. 

And Mieczyk with his legs, would the Witchers even consider him useful? Even healed he would need crutches, and Mieczyk’s entire skill set, his whole life as far as Jaskier knew, had been in the stables working with the Viscount’s horses. Witchers surely had horses but they also certainly already had plenty of stablehands, likely all of them far more able-bodied than Mieczyk.

Jaskier stroked his hand through the tangled brown hair that fell to Mieczyk’s shoulders, gently unsnarling it from itself as he contemplated his friend’s sleeping face.

Their last hope was Mieczyk’s second mark, the one that wrapped from shoulder to ribcage as if a bite from a giant monster. Though whether Mieczyk would allow anyone to see it, to get close enough to tell the pale pink mark from the rest of his skin, was unsure. Even before they’d been sent to Kaedwen, he had barely allowed _Jaskier_ to look at it during their trysts. 

One thing about the mark was clear even from the handful of chances Jaskier had gotten to glimpse it: it was the mark of a scar only a Witcher would survive. Which meant that Mieczyk’s soulmate was part of the Great Wolf’s number—whether in the keep itself or among the many Witchers who walked the Path to ensure that their acquired lands kept in line with the warlord’s domain.

Jaskier shifted a little, suddenly aware of his own mark where it hid beneath his trousers, small, no bigger than half of his own palm, and a deep angry red. He would never find his own mate, not here, but maybe the Witcher who shared a scar that matched Mieczyk’s mark would be willing to keep them. He’d have to discuss it with Mieczyk when he woke up.

He shifted again, his legs growing stiff under the weight of his friend’s sleeping body. The smaller man wasn’t generally what Jaskier would consider heavy, but the dead weight of him on Jaskier’s sore legs for such a long period of time was an issue. He cuddled Mieczyk close to his chest and attempted to adjust the position of his limbs. Mieczyk made a soft, distressed sound at the movement and Jaskier immediately gave up. It wasn’t like he really _needed_ to be more comfortable. He’d just sit, and let Mieczyk rest. They would heal and get better and then they would figure out what to do next.

And if Jaskier decided to rest his eyes, and if resting his eyes became nodding off, and nodding off became sleeping, well, that was Jaskier’s business, wasn’t it?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashwood is a competent, trained physician-mage who knows how to do his job, to be professional and to keep his shit together.
> 
> It's just hard sometimes, and he has never been faced with two patients quite like Jaskier and Mieczyk before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR TO ALL THE GODS IN THE WITCHER UNIVERSE WE'RE GETTING CLOSER TO SOME COMFORT I PROMISE YOU.
> 
> This is a story with a little bit of a wave pattern of hurt and comfort so expect it to get rough again a little but it'll even out eventually. Maybe by book 3.
> 
> CW in this chapter for descriptions of PTSD episodes/flashbacks (observed from the outside).

Ashwood was silent the whole way back to his office. He kept the stretcher poles tucked under his arm as best he could without hitting doors or accidentally kneecapping people he passed; Triss walked at his side to help keep him from hitting anyone. She was equally quiet as they considered their newest patients in the keep.

The notebook pressed against Ashwood’s body by the stretcher poles felt heavy with the notes he’d already made in it, and heavier still for the blank pages yet to be filled with what he needed to document. 

_Have to get two new notebooks. Keep this one as Jaskier’s. Make Mieczyk his own—label it and put it on the shelf beside Ashael and Geralt. Need to talk to them about the location of their soulmarks, how hidden are they with their injuries? Where are they? What do they look like? How likely is it that they will ever meet their soulmates up here in this keep until they’re better? Will they ever be healthy enough to leave again? Mieczyk’s legs are misshapen but the symptoms are **so similar** to Ashael’s, how many of the treatments for her would work on him? It is probably congenital, was that mentioned? Do I know that or am I guessing? I’m so tired._

Ashwood shook his head minutely, dismissing the racing thoughts as he opened the door that led to the office where he saw patients privately, a location separate from the keep’s infirmary. 

Triss followed him in and leaned against his desk as Ashwood put the stretcher away. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she stared towards the window at the other end of the room, her face contemplative. Ashwood waited for her to speak, knowing it would take a few more minutes in the relative quiet of his quarters for her to put together what she wanted to say.

He arranged the notebooks he had on all his patients, as well as some of the herbs and medicines he used the most frequently, simply making sure they were orderly and tidy as there was actually little else for him to do as he waited, until Triss finally spoke, “Those weren’t normal injuries for a long journey on foot.”

“Nope,” Ashwood popped the sound of the p in the letter as he responded. “They were not.” His voice was tight and clipped, his consonants clicking as he spoke. The _anger_ he felt coupled with the heartbreak of those two frightened young men, certainly no older than the youngest of the yearlings, of _Rafe_ who had helped bring Mieczyk on the stretcher to their new room…

Triss exhaled noisily, biting her lips together for a moment. “What happened? At the end?”

“Went to get his shirt off. Told him what I was doing, he said it was fine, I reached for it and he panicked,” Ashwood kept his phrasing clinical to keep from returning emotionally to the moment where he _knew_ how bad things were, even if he didn’t know exactly what was wrong yet. And truly that _was_ how it had gone. 

_”Alright, I’m going to reach for your shirt and lift it off you now. I want you to just raise your arms as much as you can and I’ll do the work, alright?” Ashwood asked, as he did just that. Mieczyk’s voice agreed but there was a sudden stiffness to his limbs as the whites of his eyes became visible around the edges of his irises. Ashwood should have stopped there, knew he should have, but didn’t._

_As Ashwood’s fingers made contact with the cotton of Mieczyk’s shirt, Mieczyk’s breath froze in his chest and a fearful noise eked out from between his lips. Ashwood had a moment to glance up and meet his eyes before a strong arm lifted up swiftly, barely missing Ashwood’s face as he dodged away just in time. Mieczyk was screaming the word, “No!” and pushing himself backwards, shouting curses and fearful epithets in a heavy, rural Redanian accent, already sobbing though tears would not fall. Ashwood jumped back to give him space but it hadn’t been fast enough._

_Mieczyk tumbled off the bed and Ashwood stepped forward on instinct to try and catch him; his hand was batted away by a flailing leg, and he drew back again. He watched the frightened man scramble to the corner, cowering and covering himself from attackers who lived only in his head, shouting for them to stop, to leave him be, not to touch him, not to hurt him anymore. Towards the end, as Triss pulled him away and Mieczyk was held by his friend in the corner, an attempt to soothe and comfort a man lost in his own head, the pleas changed to calling for a father to stop, that Mieczyk would be good if only it would stop._

Ashwood inhaled sharply, shaking his head again as he rubbed absently at his forearm, his own scars itching with the decades old memory of stress. “They have been through more than I think we’ll learn any time soon," he said. "All we can do is treat what they’ll let us treat and hope we can catch the major things before they become dangerous.” 

He ran a finger over the spine of an old notebook, its spine weathered and cracking from use, opened again and again. Faintly between the cracks the letters A S H A could still be read, pressed deeply into the leather of the binding. The final two had become too creased to be read thirty years ago. A small sad smile crossed his face.

He pulled the book from the shelf and set the new, mostly empty one atop it on the desk. He had a feeling he would need a lot more of the information from it than he originally thought.

“Are you alright?” Triss asked, her voice soft. She was the most caring person he’d ever met and twice as nice as most people Ashwood had known. He sighed, the weight of everything weighing on his shoulders for a moment.

“No, but I will be,” He told her, looking up from where his fingers traced the edges of the pages. “I’m going to write everything down, get Mieczyk his own notebook. I’ll visit them again in the morning after they’ve had time to calm down and settle in. It’s been a hard day for them both, I think we may have just pushed too far too fast.”

Triss’ face was sad as she looked at him, “Let me know if you need me, alright? You don’t need to do it alone if you require help.” He appreciated the thought, but…

He’d been alone since coming to Kaer Morhen a year ago, regardless of who might accompany him during the day. And it seemed he became more alone as the days passed. “Thank you, Triss. I will.”

She took that as the dismissal it was, though it was polite and friendly as they always were to one another. Ashwood appreciated her—she was one of the few faces in the keep who always had a kind look and a gentle word for him, no matter the occasion. But it was purely professional, his contact with others on this cold mountain. And it would remain that way as long as he was employed by the Great Wolf. He didn’t really have much other choice.

He’d ruined the only chance he’d had to open the door to friendlier contact far too early and now it was just him, isolated and afraid and away from his family.

With a heavy sigh he turned from the desk, now alone with his thoughts and his medical supplies, and drew away to the cupboard in the corner. From it he pulled a bottle of wine, a dark Temerian red from a decade before even Ashwood had been born—one of the few perks of working for a warlord that he actually took advantage of. He uncorked it, smelling to ensure there was no taint to the wine before he decanted the majority into a carafe to let it breathe. Tonight was going to be a long night and he would need as much _moral support_ as he could get. The last of the wine from the bottle he poured directly into a glass.

He pulled the chair out from the desk and settled in, pulling his writing utensils out and setting them up nice and orderly before he began.

He opened the notebook with the graphite chicken scratch notes in it, selected a fresh pencil to write with, and began.

_Patient: Mieczyk of Redania_  
_Presenting with:…_

* * *

The candle burned low as the darkness settled in further around Ashwood still at his desk, hunched over the notebook that had been fresh when he’d begun. The pencil still clung to his fingers, though it was by no fault of his own that it did so. Tears stained the page in front of him as his shoulders shook. 

It wasn’t _fair._ It wasn’t fair that these young men were so hurt, so injured and he didn’t even know if what he had taken note of comprised the whole of their wounds. Who would _do_ these things? The feared Warlord of the North, the Great Wolf of Kaedwen, wasn’t even so cruel! But Mieczyk had been made to walk on feet that had wounds going _straight through them!_ And the man likely couldn’t walk well even without the additional injuries, the way his legs were twisted. 

Memories of the way Mieczyk had sat on the floor of the throne room were overlaid with images of a young girl, brown skin and pointed ears, staring up at Ashwood from the floor of a cottage rather than a castle, tears in her eyes as she asked her older brother why it _hurt_ so much every day? Why she wasn’t able to run and walk like the other children in the village. Of a young woman much later in Ashwood’s life, the same brown skin and bright eyes and tears flowing down soft cheeks as she asked him _why he couldn’t do anything_ with his magic, with his medicine, why couldn’t he make it _stop?_ If he was so strong and powerful why couldn’t he _make her better?_

He finally set down the pencil with a clatter, reaching for the tattered book he’d been referencing for notes in Mieczyk’s journal, pulling it to his chest as though he were able to hug Ashael by doing so.

He missed Daevon, missed his mother, his little sister (not so little anymore—the details of her successful pregnancies lay in the later pages of the book he held). He missed the herb garden they’d grown out back, the villagers he’d taken care of, the memories of a time before he’d been taken away, the brother he’d lost and couldn’t find again (didn’t know if he was still _alive)._ And Ashwood was still in the same country, had left his life of his own free will, more or less. He couldn’t imagine having to cross the whole of his country and the whole of the next as well, as a punishment for…

Ashwood couldn’t even guess what it was that Jaskier and Mieczyk could have done to deserve being given away to a warlord, known across the continent for cruelty (regardless of the accuracy of those rumors). They were barely even men, not older than half of the initiates! And yet here they were, battered and bruised and clearly thoroughly broken and it was Ashwood’s job to fix them.

He didn’t know where to _begin._

Ashwood stared down at the page before him, stained with tears and wine where he had spilled over the edge of his cup, growing more inebriated as he sat with the knowledge he had and the knowledge he didn’t yet have, trying to write it all down. He glanced once more at Ashael’s book, wiped his nose on the back of his hand with a heavy sniff and nodded to himself. No, he did know where to begin. He could do _something._ It might not work, it might take him weeks to get it right, it might never help those two young men trust him, but he would do it because it was the _right thing_.

He set down Ashael’s book, open to a specific page, one he’d referenced many times before. The page that had _finally_ helped his sister. Standing on mostly-steady feet, Ashwood made his way back over to the shelf of notebooks, running his finger across the spines until he came to another familiar one and pulled it out, opening it to a separate page. He would cross reference the ingredients, make sure he removed anything too strong, adjust the levels to something closer to what the base had begun as but just a little stronger, something that would fight through skin and muscle and bone without harming the patient.

He set Geralt’s book down atop Ashael’s, fetched a fresh candle and lit it with a snap of his fingers, pulled out the necessary ingredients, and began his work. 

* * *

It was early morning when Jaskier awoke with a crick in his neck and his legs fully numb from having held Mieczyk all night. Mieczyk woke as well, slow and creaky as he pulled away from where his face had been nestled into Jaskier’s neck.

“Mm?”

Jaskier wished he could say something, almost did because he forgot he couldn’t, before the pain in his jaw and the sharp scraping in his throat reminded him. Instead he just pressed his face into Mieczyk’s hair, inhaling as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head. 

“J-Julek?” Mieczyk’s voice was hoarse from sleep—and probably also all of the crying he’d done after Ashwood and Triss had left them. His uttering of Jaskier’s nickname was partially interrupted by a long yawn and Jaskier smiled despite himself.

He wiggled his fingers beside his face in a partial wave, drawing Mieczyk’s attention. Drawing the fingers into a fist he tipped it down once, bringing it back up to wiggle his index finger, _hello, yes, goodmorning._

Mieczyk huffed a breath, the action puffing out his cheeks before he glanced around, “Whe-…Oh, _Julek_ , you should have moved me.” He pressed gently against Jaskier’s shoulders to pull away from the cradled position. Jaskier briefly tightened his hold, not quite willing to let go of his only friend and companion here in the keep, but allowed Mieczyk to move away after he made a soft noise of protest.

As soon as Mieczyk’s weight was off Jaskier’s legs, the feeling of pins and needles began. As did the polite knocking on their door.

“Ah,” Jaskier’s exhalation was probably the closest he’d come to words for a while. He mouthed the word _Fuck_ as he shifted. 

Mieczyk snorted deep in his throat, almost amusement, before calling out, “Come in.” His voice was still raspy, but it carried through the thick wood of the door, which opened soundlessly at the permission.

Ashwood stepped inside. He looked like shit, if Mieczyk had to be honest, dark circles under his eyes, his hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it, and a darkness to the inside of his lips that Mieczyk recognized as wine stains. Looked like all of them had a rough night.

Jaskier shifted, wincing in pain as the feeling returned to his legs like lightning-fire racing through his muscles. He waved, attempting to shift to a position where he could stand. Ashwood blinked at the two of them for a moment before nodding.

“Need a hand?” He asked, stepping further into the room, but not coming any closer than the armchair. Jaskier waved his hand dismissively before pausing, opening his mouth and raising a single finger, closing his mouth again as his finger curled back into his fist. He scrunched up his face and nodded. Ashwood chuckled a little as he came closer, reaching his hand down slowly for Jaskier to grab hold of.

Mieczyk did not flinch or cower away. Or, he tried very hard not to, anyway. He was pretty sure he mostly succeeded. Or he was until he saw the way Ashwood’s mouth tightened at the corners. 

Jaskier was hauled up out of the floor, wincing and mouthing strings of curses as the pain of renewed blood flow to his limbs increased with movement. 

“Just give it a minute, it’ll be alright. Go ahead and sit yourself on the bed,” Ashwood said, amusement evident in his voice. “How are we doing this morning, otherwise?”

Jaskier scrubbed his palms on his thighs as he settled on the edge of the mattress, trying to will the pain away faster. He brought one hand up with his thumb raised in the air. Ashwood nodded, a pleased look on his face.

Mieczyk cataloged all his hurts and aches. All told, sleeping on Jaskier had been a lot more comfortable than sleeping on the ground behind the cart in the caravan. Probably not very good for his…anything, really, but he’d done worse in Lettenhove.

“Stiff,” He complained, rolling his shoulders and neck, “Jaskier isn’t a very good pillow.”

Jaskier raised his hand in a rude gesture at Mieczyk who snorted again and rolled his eyes.

“Well, you’re not. It’s a fact,” He explained, grateful for his ability to snark at his friend now that there was no threat of worse punishment. Well, he was _fairly_ certain Ashwood wouldn’t punish them for talking, anyway. Triss had been actively looking into how to fix Jaskier’s voice, after all.

Ashwood smiled, genuine and relaxed, shaking his head, “Most people aren’t, Jaskier. I wouldn’t be too offended.” He patted the man gently on the shoulder, careful of any bruises or injuries he didn’t know about yet. His tone was professional, though still friendly as he continued, “I wanted to check back in with you both, make sure we were alright this morning, and see if we couldn’t continue the examinations from yesterday. I need to know quite a bit of information but I want to make sure we go slowly enough that we don’t upset or injure either of you further.”

Jaskier nodded, that made sense. Things had gotten cut a bit short last night with the whole…everything.

Mieczyk tensed, though he immediately attempted to release the tension as it made his entire body ache. The man was a doctor, and Mieczyk and Jaskier were injured. He– He wouldn’t hurt them. Probably.

He swallowed, “Alright.”

Ashwood’s smile was tight again, and Mieczyk felt bad. The man hadn’t done anything wrong yet, didn’t deserve Mieczyk’s wariness and distrust. And yet Mieczyk still gave it. 

“Jaskier, when your legs are back to normal, I want to know if you’d be able to help me get Mieczyk back onto the bed?” Ashwood asked. Then, before Jaskier could even attempt to get a response out, “I’m not asking if you _will,_ I’m asking if you would be _able_ to. With the injuries you have, is that a possibility? If not, we have other options.”

Jaskier grimaced, knowing the man was right and he needed to make sure he’d actually be helpful in assisting Mieczyk up. Ashwood clearly had dealt with people like Jaskier before, who would say yes to helping with a task (like helping their best friend off the floor) without taking into consideration whether or not they actually _could._ He looked down at Mieczyk who was also looking at him assessingly. Mieczyk was not a large man, in height or weight. He was strong, his torso built from his occupation, but not heavy. Jaskier nodded at Ashwood.

“Alright. If that changes you tell me _immediately.”_ Jaskier nodded, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Ashwood was not trying to mother-hen, he was trying to make sure they weren’t hurt worse. He needed to remember that. “Are you good to try now, or do you need more time?”

Jaskier indicated he was ready, and stood. He knelt down at Mieczyk’s side, and tapped on his own shoulders. They’d done this a hundred thousand times. They could do it today, too.

On his cue, Mieczyk looped his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders, and Jaskier placed his hands firmly on Mieczyk’s sides— _below_ his ribs, he was very careful. He met Mieczyk’s eyes briefly, and Mieczyk nodded, leaning in close and holding on tightly around Jaskier’s neck. 

“One. Two. Three–” Mieczyk counted quietly as Jaskier lifted, pulling him upright and over to the bed. Jaskier’s legs gave out briefly just as Mieczyk’s backside landed on the bed and they toppled onto the mattress with a quiet _“Oof!”_

“That is _not_ what I meant!” Ashwood gasped, clearly having to hold himself back from fussing over the two of them immediately. 

Jaskier huffed a harsh breath as he rolled over off of Mieczyk and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Mieczyk let out a soft groan of his own, though it didn’t seem _too_ pained despite the fact that Jaskier had landed on his broken ribs. 

“That was–! Oh, fuck it. It worked, I suppose,” Ashwood threw his hands into the air with exasperation. “Please don’t do it again.”

Jaskier’s chest shook with the laughter he couldn’t make and Mieczyk interpreted for him—entirely accurately, too, the bastard, “No promises.”

“Okay, at least wait until you’re both better, then?” Ashwood’s voice was fond and Jaskier raised his arm into the air with another thumbs up. 

“Wouldn’t count on that meaning much,” Mieczyk teased, poking Jaskier gently in the ribs. “Alright. We’re on the bed. What now?”

“After nearly giving me a conniption,” Ashwood muttered, before moving on with things.

Ashwood helped Jaskier and Mieczyk into more seated positions on the bed, careful to avoid touching either of them unnecessarily. Mieczyk went stiff as his shirt was removed, but he allowed it to happen. Ashwood was entirely clinical as he worked on assessing the wounds, pressing gently into broken ribs, rolling Mieczyk’s shoulders in their sockets carefully, judging bruises for severity, and addressing minor cuts that littered Mieczyk’s skin.

There had only been one pause in the examination, when Ashwood’s fingers had stilled over the large mark on Mieczyk’s right side. It stretched from Mieczyk’s shoulder to lower ribs, and looked as if something had tried to take a bite out of him. The mark was a bright, nearly shiny pink against Mieczyk’s skin. The teeth marks, because that’s what they were, pulled from the edge of his collar bone, his pectoral, his ribs, his spine and his shoulder blade towards his arm before tapering off.

Ashwood’s hand fluttered over the mark in indecision for a moment, before he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“It’s big, I know,” Mieczyk murmured quietly. “I’ve been told they’re likely a Witcher.”

“Ah, yes. Yes, probably.” Ashwood nodded, clearing his throat once more. “Mine is, as well. Large, I mean—the mark that is. And probably a Witcher. Ah…you may put your shirt back on if you wish.” The mage’s meadow-green eyes seemed reluctant to pull away from the mark itself, and Mieczyk felt… It wasn’t self-consciousness, no. It was uncomfortable, however, so he shuffled himself back into his shirt with Jaskier's help pulling it over his head when his arms could reach no further without hurting him.

As Mieczyk re-dressed, Ashwood busied himself with writing notes furiously into one of the two notebooks he’d brought with him. Once Mieczyk was settled again on the bed, Ashwood stilled his pencil, setting the notebook aside once more. 

“I want to take another look at your feet," he said, before launching into another lengthy round of medical suggestions "If there’s anything we can do to help them heal faster, I’d like to try and take that route if you’re amenable. Secondarily, if you are up for it and _only_ if you are up for it, I want to check for further injuries farther up your legs and around your hips. However, I know this is a lot to do all at once, so if you are not ready for that today, we can stop with just your feet today, try again some other time,” Ashwood’s voice was firm as he emphasized that this was up to Mieczyk. 

Mieczyk appreciated that, actually. He contemplated the options before him. He could get it all done and out of the way now, all at once. He likely wouldn’t have to do it again unless it was worse than Mieczyk thought, worse than just the fact that his legs sat improperly in their joints, angled even when straight in front of him. _Built wrong,_ the voice of a man he would always want to forget echoed in his head. _Not wrong,_ Julian’s voice corrected, _different. **You.**_

Neither were correct. He shook himself out of it. Maybe not today, “I– just…“

“Of course,” Ashwood seemed to understand without Mieczyk finishing the thought, “Just the feet today. We’ll take a look at everything else another time, as long as nothing gets worse or starts becoming uncomfortable.” Mieczyk nodded and they continued on.

Mieczyk’s feet were properly cleaned and bandaged and as soon as they were done, as promised, Ashwood left Mieczyk be, turning his focus on Jaskier.

While Jaskier hadn’t been beat within an inch of his life, or dragged along the ground, he didn’t fare _much_ better than Mieczyk in the long run. He had been beaten frequently on the trip whenever he’d fought back trying to keep the men from touching Mieczyk and so he, too, was littered with bruises and had cracked ribs. His feet were swollen, stuck in his boots and Ashwood apologized for needing to actually cut them off of him. Jaskier had merely scoffed and shrugged, not caring about the shiny boots that he’d been forced to wear when they’d been redressed by the guards to hide the shame of Redania’s treatment. If Ashwood thought this strange, he said nothing.

Feeling along the bones of the foot, he felt no proper fractures but he was familiar with the filament-thin breaks that could form from overuse with no rest. A strained and twisted ankle only compounded the pain that radiated through Jaskier’s legs with each step, and Ashwood added his notes to the notebook. They finished with another examination of his mouth, jaw, and throat. 

“Well, the good news is that your throat will heal,” Ashwood declared finally, “It will take quite some time, and you may not have the range you used to, but you should be able to speak and sing once more by the end of this.”

Relief flooded Jaskier and he sagged back like a marionette with strings cut. Ashwood smiled at him, equally relieved it seemed.

“The bad news is that you’ll probably have problems with your jaw for some time. We’ll need to work on your muscle tone to fix some of the damage done. It’s also possible that you’ll have a clicking to it when you open it too far. I wouldn’t be surprised if it locks up from time to time, both open and closed.” He sighed, and Jaskier shook his head dismissively. He could handle that if he could _sing_ again. Or at least _talk_. 

If he could be what the Great Wolf had agreed to keep them for, perhaps they wouldn’t need to rely on Mieczyk’s unknown Witcher soulmate instead.

Ashwood shrugged at his flippant reaction to the news about his jaw, jotting down a few last notes in the second notebook that he’d opened when he’d started working with Jaskier. “Regardless, I’ll work on seeing if we can’t get something to ease the pain in your feet while you heal. For both of you.” Ashwood finished his notetaking and stood from the bed, waving Jaskier back down when he also went to stand. “I’ll see myself out, thank you. Both of you should rest as much as you can. I’ll make sure something is sent for your breakfast. If you should need anything, just flag someone down and they can come get Triss or I. Any time for anything,” Ashwood glanced between them. “I suppose I should also make up for yesterday and say, welcome to Kaer Morhen. You’ll be safe here, I promise.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they settle into their new home, Jaskier and Mieczyk get to know those they interact with closest a little better, and maybe (just maybe) they start healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY OKAY LOOK I TOLD YOU I'D GET TO THE COMFORT AND HERE IT IS.
> 
> I mean okay it's still a _little_ fraught but not too bad. It's getting better and I've tried to temper it all with some sillies so it's _fine._ probably. No yeah it's fine at least for a little while.
> 
> This was originally two chapters but I didn't like that the one was separate from other stuff so i gave it a buddy and now we have Ultra Chapter. Anyway, let's make like Geralt and have some sweet things in our lives. As a treat.

Things settled into a routine. Every other day or so Mieczyk and Jaskier received a visit from either Ashwood or Triss, checking on their various wounds and injuries, making sure they were healing well, that they were following their respective treatment plans, that they were getting adequate food, things of that nature.

And they did begin healing. It was slow, Jaskier drinking first an herbal tea to help heal the open wounds in his throat, then drinking lemon and honey tea—a more familiar remedy for the singer—to keep his newly healed vocal cords lubricated and loose. He hobbled around their room for the first few days, not able to walk properly until the end of their second week in the keep, which drove him mad until one of the kitchen boys who brought their meals left them a deck of cards hidden under one of the bowls that covers their stew on their third night in Kaer Morhen.

The cards kept the two occupied during the long days filled with a veritable cornucopia of nothing. A week into their stay, Ashwood dropped by one afternoon, outside of the normal routine of morning visits. 

Mieczyk and Jaskier were playing a quick card game but at the knocking on their door, they quickly collected their cards, Mieczyk tying them deftly with the cord they’d come wrapped in before shoving them under the pillow Jaskier used. They weren’t sure if they were allowed to have the cards, and they didn’t want their only entertainment taken away if they weren’t.

Once the cards were stowed away, Jaskier hobbled to the door to open it, allowing Ashwood inside.

“Is something wrong?” Mieczyk asked from his place on the bed as Jaskier winced and shuffled his way back across the room and Ashwood glanced around as he always did. 

Ashwood was dressed somehow _more_ casually than he normally did. For a mage, Ashwood didn’t seem to have the flair for fine fabrics and showy garments that others did. He instead favored plain linen and canvas clothes, usually stained in dirt and plants, and he almost always smelled faintly of a barn whenever he came by. 

Today he wore the same meadow-green shirt he’d worn their first day in the keep, paired with simple dark canvas trousers and his dusty boots. He’d forgone the waistcoat that matched the one Mieczyk had been given for the last leg of their journey to the keep, and had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Jaskier and Mieczyk had never seen the man’s forearms, they realized suddenly as they caught sight of the intense scars on his forearms. Jaskier’s eyebrows rose towards his hairline, and Mieczyk shot him a sharp look as Ashwood responded to their initial question.

“Oh, no everything’s fine! I just finished working on something and I wanted to see if you were interested in it, Mieczyk,” He pulled out a tin from the bag he habitually wore slung across his body. The tin was plain and when he opened it to reveal the thick ointment inside, there was the sharp, astringent smell of celandine. Under that was a softer scent of sage and lavender. 

“What is it?” Mieczyk scooted across the mattress to get a better look as Ashwood came closer. Ashwood passed him the open tin and lid so he could inspect it.

“For your legs and hips. I have worked with other people who have similar pain conditions. Geralt, for instance, regularly uses a much stronger version than this that I’ve got for Witchers. This one is more closely related to one I made for my own sister, but I’ve borrowed elements to try and make it stronger since the one for Ashael was fairly weak in the end, though she didn’t say until much later on,” Ashwood chuckled to himself. “So this one is a little more intense. I will need to check to make sure you’re not reacting to anything in it poorly, or we’ll have to try something else, but it should work for you. Provide a bit of relief from the daily pain if nothing else.”

Mieczyk inhaled sharply, the medicinal smell of the herbs and chemicals in the carrying ointment wafting over him, and he was reminded of the smell of Edwina’s hut before they moved to Lettenhove, and the first time he’d felt safe in his entire life. “I– Thank you, Ashwood. I– I would. Like to try this, I mean.”

Ashwood’s smile brightened in a way they hadn’t seen before as he launched into an explanation about the ointment, “Excellent! So you shouldn’t need much, just a fingertip’s worth per leg. You’ll want to focus the application near the joints, especially the ones that give you the most trouble. But it’s not going to hurt anything if you apply it elsewhere.” Ashwood demonstrated the amount they’d need, as well as how to apply it on Mieczyk’s knee when he rolled his trouser leg up at Ashwood’s request.

The quick lesson finished, Ashwood wiped his hands off on a rag he kept in the bag, before pulling out a leaf of paper from inside a notebook. “There’s this, as well. It’s…Well, it’s a little silly but I figured it might be helpful. I’m still relatively new here as well, so these are things that I wish I’d known when I’d gotten here.” He passed the sheet to Jaskier who read the top:

_Ashwood's Witcher Primer (a note for Jaskier and Mieczyk)_

A quick scan showed a list of items, some of them illustrated with examples of what they described. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier mouthed, still not healed enough to do more than that. Ashwood beamed at the two.

“Of course! I tried hard to make it legible, I know my handwriting isn’t always the best, so let me know if there’s anything you can’t quite decipher,” He joked, fidgeting a little with the rolled up sleeves of his shirt.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Mieczyk reassured. He cleared his throat awkwardly and caught Jaskier’s eye.

He pinched his hand like he was holding a lady’s fan and waves it twice, _Cards?_ he asked Jaskier. Jaskier nodded and Mieczyk fished under the pillow for their hastily stashed deck.

“Want to play cards with us?” He asked Ashwood, tentatively bringing out their carefully kept secret.

Ashwood shifted on the bed where he had perched himself on the edge, “Oh? What game?”

As the three settled down and Mieczyk went over their options for games, something peaceful settled into place in the air around the keep, and things seemed like maybe they would be alright in the end.

* * *

Some time later, Jaskier’s voice was healing and they were both able to move around a little more easily. The salve Ashwood created worked wonders and Mieczyk was quickly pushing himself to move around more with the excitement that ease-of-motion lended him. Ashwood came by every so often to play cards, or discuss life outside of the keep, as well as life inside it. 

Ashwood, they learned, was part of the Great Wolf’s council and often came by to complain about the political doubletalk and intentional obfuscation that nobles from other countries went through to try and trick them all.

Jaskier listened intently, and as he was able to speak more and more, he offered his input from his background of knowledge that came from his father and his time in other courts during the winters. He found himself surprised at how much he had gleaned despite not _trying_ to pay attention—or even _trying not to_ pay attention. Ashwood also frequently appeared stunned by the input, but mostly because _none of them would have thought of that, thank you Jaskier!_

Sometimes Ashwood came back with reports that Jaskier’s input helped immensely, or that his suggestions had worked, cutting down on the discussion and bickering that generally would fill the council room when they all got stuck on something. 

When Mieczyk’s feet were healed enough that Ashwood stopped frowning when he learned about his trips around their room, Ashwood brought a pair of crutches, clearly freshly shorn down to size.

“These are just temporary,” He explained, “I’ve got some designs for a more permanent solution that will be easier on your arms and upper body, as well as help increase the range of motion you get in your legs. But walking around will help you heal more at this point than sitting in this room all day will,” He handed the mobility aids over and Mieczyk, having not known any other kinds of crutches were even available, just blinked as he took the temporary ones from Ashwood.

“I– Thank you? I’m…What do the permanent ones look like?”

The designs Ashwood showed him would have spaces for his forearms to rest while he would hold onto a handle. The forearm rests would also have the ability to strap around his forearms, which would give him the use of his hands without potentially misplacing the crutch by setting it aside. 

It was only another week before the new crutches were ready. In that time Jaskier and Mieczyk started leaving their room, exploring a short ways away to get better bearings on the layout of their new home. Ashwood accompanied them frequently, and on days when Mieczyk required more rest, and when Jaskier was able to walk farther, Ashwood and Jaskier would take their political talk on a stroll around the lower levels of the keep.

* * *

Eventually, Jaskier’s voice was practically back to normal. It caught a little on high notes and when he got too excited—something he frequently frowned about when it happened, as it reminded him of when his voice first changed. He put up with it though, as it was something Mieczyk teased him endlessly over, and letting Mieczyk have fun was more important to Jaskier than the embarrassing state of his voice. 

When Jaskier was able to speak without squeaking on every word, Ashwood came by for a more standard medical visit, assessing their healing injuries, declaring some completely healed and no longer in need of attention, and checking on Mieczyk’s comfort and progress with the ointment.

At the end of the examination, he settled into the lone chair, Mieczyk perched on the end of the bed close by and Jaskier leaning against the still-empty bookshelf. He pulled out his two notebooks and opened the one he used for Jaskier.

“Now that you’re both more healed, I need to make notes of your marks so that I don’t mistake them for injuries in the future,” Ashwood explained, adjusting his hold on his pencil until it was comfortable as he shifted to hold the notebook on his crossed knee. “I haven’t run into yours, Jaskier, so I thought we could start with you.”

Jaskier grimaced, “Do we _have_ to?”   
Mieczyk was already grinning wide from his spot on the bed as Ashwood nods firmly, fully in physician mode, “Yes, it’s very important that I have this information.”

Jaskier sighed, big and heavy and dramatic, “Oh, _fine.”_ His hands immediately fell to the laces of his trousers, undoing them swiftly. His fingers hooked into the waistband of both trousers and small clothes as he shucked them down his legs in a single motion before turning around and bending forward, leaning on the bookcase.

Ashwood did not laugh. It was a near thing but he _didn’t._ Not even as, his backside fully on display, Jaskier pointed to a patch of nearly completely white skin—oblong in shape, about the length of Jaskier’s index finger and twice as wide—just at the crease between his right thigh and buttock with his hand. Ashwood quickly made note of it, fighting his face as his expression did _so many_ things.

“Go ahead, I know you want to laugh,” Jaskier said, resigned. He hadn’t looked back behind himself, nor had Ashwood made any sound to indicate that he found the display amusing—though he very much _did_ find it amusing. Ashwood continued to be a professional and did not laugh, instead burying himself in his notebook to mark the size and shape of the mark in a bit more detail than he normally noted. Normally this amount of detail wasn’t used unless he was made aware of the marks due to finding them near an injury, but he wasn’t one to waste an opportunity to properly notate one before an emergency made it easier.

Mieczyk, on the other hand, had no compunctions against letting out a delighted cackling laugh as he tipped backwards on the bed, clutching his stomach. The amusement was more for Ashwood’s reactions and attempted lack thereof than the actual exposure Jaskier had given himself, but it was a bright and happy sound that filled the space in a way Ashwood had not heard before.

It had been a long time since Jaskier had heard Mieczyk laugh like that. Since well before Jaskier had even come back to Lettenhove, before this whole debacle started and he was just going to be showing up for Aleksander’s name-day. He chuckled too, hiding his face in his elbow where he leaned against the bookshelf, happy to hear the sound of Mieczyk laughing again.

“Alright, you can put your trousers back on, _drama queen,”_ Ashwood informed Jaskier who was bright red as he pulled his pants back up. 

“That is why you prefer being on top, right, Julek?” Mieczyk snickered between gasps of breath as he tried to compose himself before dissolving once more into giggles.

Once Jaskier was dressed again, lacing up the ties on his trousers, Ashwood turned to Mieczyk, “I already know where yours is, so you don’t–”

“I have a second,” Mieczyk interrupted, sobering slowly from his extended giggle fit, “A second mark. The one on my side you saw. The other…it’s–“ He gestures to his face, where his hair hangs in front of his eye to cover it, “–Uh, left side, over my eye. It’s darker than– than the other one,” He traces the rough shape of the mark in front of his face. If one got closer and truly examined his left eye, they would be able to see the slightly dark patch of skin that stretched from eyebrow to cheekbone and across the whole of his eye socket. But from the distance Ashwood was from Mieczyk it was obscured enough by the hair that fell into his face and the low light in the room from the shifting sunlight that it seemed nearly invisible.

Ashwood noted the rough size based on Mieczyk’s gesture and the location under his note on the extensive mark he’d seen on their second day. “Thank you, now I won’t worry about trying to heal something that doesn’t need healing.” He smiles tightly, looking up from his notes as he closes the book on his lap before stowing it and the pencil back in his bag.

“Wait, you mean I just pantsed myself and I didn’t have to?” Jaskier asked, suddenly indignant.

“I merely said I needed to know where it was and what it looked like, I didn’t say I needed to see it,” Ashwood pointed out, his grin loosening a little from it’s pinched position from before. 

Mieczyk broke out into laughter again as Jaskier made offended noises at Ashwood’s response and that was probably worth the humiliation, he thought, smiling as well as both he and Ashwood also laughed along with Mieczyk who had once more flopped back onto the bed, holding his sides as he cackled.

* * *

Jaskier and Ashwood were walking through the courtyard of Kaer Morhen on a bright, sunny day. Their normal paths had already taken them through the gardens, the majority of the halls on the first level, and now they were coming on the end of their loop around the courtyard and yet they were no closer to a conclusion to their conversation than they had been when they started their walk. Mieczyk had asked them to take the political talk out of the room, as he had rolled his eyes and taken out the deck of cards to play a game of Solitaire.

Not wanting to make the path back through where they’d already been, because it certainly wouldn’t be long enough to solve the issue they were trying to workshop between themselves, Ashwood gestured towards the stables and barn. Jaskier followed with a nod and they continued on their way.

The change of scenery and the new environment clearly helped them as mere minutes into their stroll through the cool, dark space they were nearly at a solution that had eluded them now for over an hour.

They were just wrapping up when they came to a halt in front of a particular stall where a beautiful bay mare stands, looking at them reproachfully.

“Oh, hello Roach!” Ashwood greeted her, holding his palm out in front of her. Jaskier didn’t think horses could look skeptical but this one _one hundred percent did._ “Not in the mood?”

“She was colicky this morning, so probably not,” A gravelly voice came from the shadows of the stall behind the horse and Jaskier tried very hard not to jump at the startle.

“Oh no! That’s terrible. She’s doing better now?” Ashwood asked as the man came into view. Jaskier recognized him as one of the Witchers from the, frankly, disastrous first day in the throne room. 

“Much,” The man’s voice had no inflection and his expression was somehow neutral and thunderous at the same time. Jaskier clenched his fist at his side and willed himself to be calm. Ashwood spoke with the man like he was a friend, so he was probably fine, Witcher or no. The man’s golden eyes passed from gazing at his horse to where Jaskier stood a little behind Ashwood, “You are feeling better?”

“Ah, yes. Nothing so serious as colic!” Jaskier replied brightly, putting his whole effort into trying to appear unaffected by the sudden anxiety of being around a Witcher again. He was very pleased that his voice didn’t even try to crack on the words as he spoke. Ashwood had been allowed by the horse to pet her nose, and turned from her to watch Jaskier carefully, like he was watching for some sort of reaction. Was this a test? Jaskier wasn’t sure, but if it was he would pass it.

“Good. Was hoping to hear you sing soon,” The white-haired man grumbled, drawing his eyes away and back to his horse.

Jaskier was a little ashamed at how quickly he released his breath as soon as the man was no longer looking at him. Ashwood was giving the man a calculating sort of look and Jaskier wondered if maybe the test wasn’t for him after all. He was curious about this man, now, and the curiosity quickly trumped the fear.

“I’m not sure I caught your name—and if I have, I’m quite certain to have not only forgotten it but also likely did so within moments. I’m terrible with names,” Jaskier chuckled a little, leaning on the stall door—safely out of the way of the horse’s teeth if she decided to take a nibble of his doublet—much like he did back in Lettenhove when he wanted to talk with Mieczyk while he was working. “So I apologize if I get it wrong, but I would very much like to learn it,” He finished, smiling at the man’s back.

“Geralt,” was the only sound the man made and Jaskier assumed that must be his name.

“Geralt. Geralt. I will try to remember that. It took me _years_ to figure out Mieczyk’s name, so again I apologize in advance, but I am going to make an effort!” He smiled brightly as the man glanced quickly over his shoulder. 

Geralt turned back to his horse quickly, nodding his head with the motion, “Yours?”

“Ah, my _manners,_ my mother would be _furious_ with me!” He shook his head at himself, “I am Jaskier, humble bard at your service.” He flourished his hand a little in front of his face in lieu of a bow. It was a little lost on the man who did not turn back around to watch, but the effort was made and it is always the thought that counts.

Ashwood snorted a laugh at him and he made a face at the mage who pulled away from the horse—Porch? Roach? Goat? A strange name for a horse, but Jaskier had seen stranger in his days. Horses always had strange names, at least this one was short. 

“Come on,” The mage said, shaking his own head. “I want to make sure we get you back before Mieczyk complains about being late for dinner. I also need to make sure I either write down your brilliant solution or catch Vesemir before he goes to hide in the library for the rest of the night,” Ashwood rolled his eyes as he gave the horse a final pat. “See you later, Geralt! Remember not to feed her _too_ many sugars,” he teased.

Geralt’s face was a stern frown, “How did you know that was how she got colic?” He asked as Ashwood laughed and walked away with a wave.

“I’m a doctor, Geralt! I know things!”

Jaskier smiled and waved as well as he followed Ashwood back in the direction they came from, “It was nice to meet you properly, Geralt! And you as well, Lady Roach!” Geralt’s frown deepens as he turns back to his horse and Jaskier hopes he remembered her name right but he probably fucked it up—who names a horse _Roach_ after all?—as he turns himself around to make sure he doesn’t trip on anything in his path.

Jaskier and Ashwood walked for a bit in companionable silence before Jaskier broke it, “So. Geralt. He seems…” He fumbled for a word, “Quiet?”

Ashwood snorted, slightly undignified, “Quiet is a word.” There was a moment where Ashwood thought for a moment, and Jaskier had to make himself wait to hear what he would follow up with, trying not to interrupt to spew his thoughts all over the place. Out in the open where Witchers could overhear him, he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Ashwood continued finally, “He’s…different from the others. Lambert is loud and obnoxious but I’m almost certain he’s doing that on purpose.” 

Someone they pass, a young Witcher belied by their bright yellow eyes, barely suppressed a snicker at Ashwood’s comment and Ashwood gave them a pointed look. A soft, “Sorry Amm– Ashwood,” muttered as they scurried away from the mage’s raised eyebrow, sheepish in their wordless chastisement.

“I swear, I don’t know where they’re getting these manners from,” Ashwood muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Anyway, Lambert is an ass on purpose. He’s not a bad person, though. Just difficult to get used to. The young ones take after him– _is that why they’re like that?”_ He gasped, stopping mid stride to gape at the thought, frowning deeply with his mouth hanging open. Jaskier stifled a laugh to avoid getting the same reproachful glare the Witcher had received. “Odin’s saggy ball sack. I need to speak with him about that. Their reputation will never improve if that’s how they comport themselves outside of the keep!” Shaking his head against the thought, he tried to pull himself back to the topic. “It’s the training, you see,” he explained, “Lambert heads a lot of the training for the yearlings when they’re back in the keep, and manages the training schedules for the initiates before they’ve gone through the trials. That makes _so much sense.”_

“So…Lambert is…” Jaskier thought for a long moment about a diplomatic word to use for the man who he had never met, “A character, of sorts. The younger witchers are like him, in ways. Are…other Witchers like Lambert?”

“Fuck I hope not. We only need one of him,” Ashwood sounded genuinely distraught over the thought. “Well… He’s not so bad on the inside but _Melitele_ we do not need the kind of chaotic nonsense he turns to in boredom in any higher quantities,” A quiet shudder at the thought, “No, most of the others are reserved. They have some strong opinions, usually, but they’re not usually outspoken. They tend to group up, for the most part, when they’re in the keep anyway. Geralt tends to be by himself a lot, and spends most of his time with the horses, when we’re not in council meetings. He’s the Witcher version of soft-spoken and I didn’t know they got quieter than that before I met him.” Ashwood chuckled a little, “He’s…It’s hard to tell, he’s not very good at…showing the way he feels. But he seems to be fairly sweet. Or at least harmless.”

Jaskier thought back to the sheet that Ashwood had made up for them, the point about Geralt:

_Geralt (white hair, death pallor) is the worst at expressing his feelings._ accompanied by a drawing of two Geralts, one labeled “Geralt in His Head” and the other labeled “Geralt in Real Life”. The one labeled to show how Geralt saw himself had a soft expression with the mouth drawn on like that of a cat. The real life one was a very accurate drawing of the man’s usual expression—or at least it matched the expression he’d had on his face both times Jaskier had met him so far.

He nodded, “I see.”

Ashwood glanced around the corridor conspiratorially before gesturing Jaskier in closer for a secret. He whispered the next part, “I gave him a sugar cube for Roach once. I think she’d already had several, because he apologized to her for not being able to give it to her, and then _he bent his head like **he** was a horse and ate it from his own hand.”_

Jaskier covered his mouth with his hand as his mouth dropped open. That was…Well it was certainly hard to imagine but once he got there it was possibly the most saccharine thing he’d pictured in… _ever_ possibly.

“That’s– certainly I would not have guessed that on my own,” Jaskier admitted. His face wasn’t quite sure what it wanted to do with itself, as he battled the conflicting emotions that bounced around in his head: amusement, delight, shock, and others argued for his favor but he couldn’t pick just one as they all occurred simultaneously at the idea of the large, intimidating white-haired Witcher secretly pretending to be a horse to eat a sugar cube of all things.

Ashwood merely nods and straightened, putting distance between them like they weren’t just exchanging secrets, “So I’m fairly certain if you’re just kind to him, and occasionally bring sweets _for his horse,”_ Ashwood emphasized pointedly, “you can probably get along with him pretty well.”

“You know who I should introduce him to? Mieczyk,” Jaskier decided, suddenly. “Mieczyk worked as a stablehand before we came here—” This seemed to startle Ashwood, who looked confused for a moment, though Jaskier couldn’t imagine _why._ Mieczyk was _perfectly_ capable of being a stablehand. He certainly did more of the work than the stable master, Friedrick, did, anyway, “—and he loves horses. I bet they’d get along like a house on fire!”

Ashwood tilted his head to the side, contemplating the thought, “I think that’s a good idea. Maybe a slow introduction?” He suggests as both of them think back to outing they had done with Mieczyk so far.

_Mieczyk was very good at forcing himself to be uncomfortable, which Jaskier **hated.** The first of their longer outings so that Mieczyk could test his new crutches had been during a rather busy time of the day in the courtyard—not through any fault of Jaskier and Ashwood’s of course. They had thought there was more time before the yearlings were released from training and flooded the keep’s lower levels in anticipation of baths and meals._

_The crush of so many Witchers, fresh on the Path as they apparently were, had startled and overwhelmed Mieczyk, resulting in him shutting down, standing stock still in the middle of the stream of them like a rock in a river, buffeted by the large, muscled bodies and nearly knocking him over. It had taken both Jaskier and Ashwood to retrieve him when they realized he’d been left behind._

_Once safely ensconced back in their room, Mieczyk had collapsed in the corner, curled in on himself and whimpering like he had on the road. It had taken Jaskier all night to be allowed close, and longer before they had ended up in their bed, Jaskier holding his friend to help calm him down. They made sure to plan their outings better after that, for emptier corridors and quieter times of day._

Jaskier nodded at Ashwood’s suggestion, “Yes, I think a slower introduction would be wise. Perhaps bring Mieczyk to just meet the horses, first. Then we can introduce him to those who he’ll see more often while he’s there.”

* * *

A few days later, Ashwood came by Jaskier and Mieczyk’s room to spend time with them. They were playing cards when Jaskier stood up for the fifth time to pace a little.

“Should we take a quick walk, Jaskier?” Ashwood asked, as Mieczyk collected their cards into a tidy deck, watching them.

“Oh, _gods,_ would you mind? I am going _mad_ cooped up in here!” He sighed dramatically, as Mieczyk shuffled the cards a few times.

“Mieczyk? Would you care to join us?” Ashwood offered, as he usually did when they weren’t being kicked out by the smaller man.

Mieczyk bit his lips together, continuing to shuffle as he thought.

“Oh! Oh yes, yes he should join us. We can show you the barn!” Jaskier latched on excitedly. “Mieczyk, you _must_ come with us.”

Ashwood shot Jaskier a chastising look that Jaskier simply did not notice. Whether this was because he chose not to or because he was simply too focused on getting Mieczyk to agree, it was unclear. 

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Ashwood added, gently, resting his hand in the space between them—a shadow of the comforting gesture he wished to make to Mieczyk who always looked as though he could use a hug, but… they weren’t quite there yet, and Ashwood’s heart ached but he would respect that Mieczyk required the space and time.

“No, he _must,_ Ashwood. He stays in here all day, it’s not healthy! Plus, the _horses._ Mieczyk, you love horses! They have so many. You could tell me all about them!” Jaskier said excitedly, “You know how I am, no facts stick so I can’t tell what kind of horses they are but they are exquisite creatures, even to my untrained eyes!” He knelt at the side of the bed closest to Mieczyk, hands cupped together as he pleaded with him, “Oh do come with us. For me, Mieczyk?”

That was, perhaps, not _entirely_ fair of Jaskier, though it had the desired effect. Mieczyk sighed, tidying up the cards and placing them in their customary position under Jaskier’s pillow, “Alright. I will come.”

“Oh, _wonderful._ You are going to _love_ it. I promise!” Jaskier exclaimed, hopping up and practically bounding through the room as Mieczyk moved at a much more sedate pace off the bed, collecting the crutches that sat by the bedside. 

He pulled his arms through the cloth that helped secure them to him, making sure his grip was sure before he attempted to stand. There had been a learning curve, getting used to where he needed to hold them in order to have the best balance, and then another to use them to walk effectively, but he did find he preferred them to the kind he’d used his whole life before that.

The walk to the stables was more straightforward than the one that Ashwood and Jaskier had taken just a few days before, skipping the courtyard and the busiest of corridors in favor of making their way straight to their destination. Jaskier, excited by the prospect of showing Mieczyk something new about their home, chattered the whole way. Ashwood smiled a little, both at Jaskier’s excitement and at the amused glances that his boisterous chatter draws from the Witchers they pass. 

Ashwood did have a small amount of reservation for how Mieczyk had been coerced into going with them, but Mieczyk was rolling his eyes and shooting barbs back at Jaskier at appropriate times in their conversation as though they were still in their rooms. He supposed that meant that things were alright for now. He would continue to keep watch on the two, however, to make sure that if things changed he caught it before it reached the stage it had the last time the three had made an outing together.

They arrived at the barn and Jaskier led the way to the stables, but Mieczyk got distracted by the large goat pen filled with two and a half dozen goats. And, to Ashwood’s dismay, _Eskel._

Ashwood fought the grimace he wanted to make, the conflicted feelings he had for the man having no place here. 

Mieczyk stilled as well when he noticed the large, scarred Witcher, memories of their last meeting still fresh in his mind even over a month out. He tightened his grip on his crutches and refocused back on the goats, “There’s…a lot of goats.”

Ashwood nodded, “Yeah. They produce a lot of milk for the keep. About half. The cows do the rest of the work.” Mieczyk cleared his throat, tapping his crutch gently against the post of the pen absently as he too nodded in response. Ashwood continued, “The horses are this way. I think we may have lost Jaskier,” Ashwood gestured down the way Jaskier had gone and Mieczyk scoffed lightly.

“Jaskier lost _himself._ The man has no sense of direction,” He said with fond exasperation. “It’s a wonder he ever made it home when he went off to perform.”

“He’s mentioned your home a few times,” Ashwood said carefully. Conversations about Redania, or at least pre-Kaer Morhen with Jaskier went one of two ways usually: either fond memories of his travels and family, or quiet clamming up accompanied by a distant look on his face, not generally just a longing for home, either. The haunted look in his eyes belied that too much, despite the way Jaskier would attempt to play it off.

“It was a good home,” Mieczyk said, the sound of his shuffling footsteps accompanied by the gentle tapping of his crutches against the ground. “Stables weren’t nearly this large, though,” he pointed out, looking around at the high ceilings and clean, well-kept stalls. Several horses poked their heads over their doors to watch the newcomers, interested in pats or treats.

“They are a bit impressive, yes,” Ashwood laughed, guiding them both towards his own horse’s stall. Graves poked her head out as she heard him and gave a whicker at him. “Hello darling. How are we today?” He greeted her with a rub to her nose that she leaned into. “Oh I’m sorry. No, I haven’t any treats today, either. I am a mean, mean man.” He joked with his horse, running his fingers over the soft hair of her forelock.

_”Oh,”_ Mieczyk breathed, coming over beside Ashwood quicker than Ashwood had seen him move ever. “Oh she is _beautiful,_ Ashwood!”

Ashwood smiled at the enamoured look on Mieczyk’s face as he came up to the brown mare. She leaned her head down and butted at his chest for treats.

“Graves, he doesn’t have anything for you either!” Ashwood laughed. 

“I should, though,” Mieczyk said softly, stroking down the side of Graves’ face. The horse next to Graves’ stall threw their head out to see what was going on, as well as to demand attention.

“Roach! That’s not where you live!” Ashwood blinked at the mare. The stall next to Graves was usually for a large war horse stallion, Scorpion. Ashwood didn’t know who Scorpion belonged to because they were never in the barn at the same time Ashwood was, but the great big horse was a big fan of Graves and had put up such a fuss the one time they tried to move him to another stall that they kept him there.

“Scorpion is out,” Geralt’s voice came from inside the stall, “And Roach’s stall is being cleaned.” He poked his head out over the stall door as well, his long white hair falling like a mane. Ashwood bit back laughter but only just.

Mieczyk stilled beside him taking in the image as he continued petting Graves’ head. 

Ashwood held his breath. He hadn’t intended on Mieczyk and Geralt meeting so soon. Hadn’t thought the other man would even be down here at this time of day, not that he’d really considered it in the rush of Jaskier begging Mieczyk to come down.

“What is she, 6 years old?”

“Seven.”

“About 16 hands? Tall.”

“Gotta be. We prefer taller horses.”

“Makes sense. You’re all giants.”

“Mutagens.”

“Conditions are good here. How do winters fare?”

“Cold. Barn’s alright.”

“Dry or wet?”

“Dry, lots of snow.”

“Food stores hold up well?”

“Sealed, lots of terriers to keep rats and mice away.”

“Not cats?”

“Only some. Cats don’t like Witchers much.”

“Shame, you have the same eyes. Thought that might be a point in your favor.”

“We just give them their space. Some of them have gotten used to us.”

“Probably more as they stick around. Where’s your ferrier?”

“I’ll show you.”

Geralt pulled his head back inside the stall to settle Roach before coming out, “‘Kel will take care of you when he comes back with Scorpion, Roach. Be good for him. No biting,” He lectured as he closed the door shut behind him. Mieczyk followed the man down the corridor as Ashwood blinked, watching their retreating backs.

That was…possibly the most words he’d ever heard Geralt say. Certainly the friendliest he’d ever heard the man. And Mieczyk had barely reacted after the initial shock of someone poking their head from a stall where it wasn’t expected. Huh.

Jaskier came around the corner, out of breath and a little flushed, “Where have you _been?_ I got up onto the battlements somehow. Wait…where did Mieczyk go? I was going to show him Roach!”

Oh sure, he remembered the _horse’s_ name, Ashwood thought with amusement, “He met her. And Geralt. I think they’re bonding right now.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows rose into his hairline, “Oh. That was quick.”

Ashwood shrugged, a smile stretching across his face, “Horse people, am I right?”

* * *

Lambert scowled as he surveyed the training grounds. The kids had split themselves up into factions again, though he had noticed that a few swapped sides since it all started. He knew he shouldn’t have complained about the council room drama between Eskel and Ashwood within hearing distance of the initiates but it was so frustrating to watch the two men dance around each other over something that had long been resolved. 

“Quinn, check your feet! Miska, guard high when he goes for the overhead. Oh for fuck’s sake Arin, I’ve _told_ you about your open side.” He walked between the paired initiates as they went through their forms, tapping his sword against openings and adjusting stances where he could. 

“Gods, Cactus is being a real fucking prick today,” Lambert’s ears picked up and he raised an eyebrow but didn’t look for who had muttered it to their training partner.

“Shut the fuck up, he’ll hear you,” Came the response. He snorted a breath of laughter through his nose as he adjusted more of the initiates in their forms. 

“Don’t you know? Aiden was sent on recon again. He’s gonna be out for like, a month this time I heard,” A third voice jumped in. The first grunted as a hit landed and Lambert reached the end of the row, turning around to go back through on the other side.

“The fuck does that have to do with Cactus living up to his fucking name?” The first initiate grumbled, before apparently landing a few hits of his own, “Take that you fucking _Eskellian.”_ This is said with a good natured grin and Lambert thought he saw the group that was talking while they trained. 

“Amma’s-boy!” His partner shot back as a fourth voice joined in.

“Aiden is Lambert’s _mate,_ fuckwad. Of course he’s upset, he doesn’t even have the scar for his mark yet!” They said. 

Lambert frowned, his light mood at overhearing what the kids talk about while they train falling flat.

He rubbed at his eye, scratching just below the mark as he thought about Aiden riding off out of the keep _again._ Fucker _better_ come home.

“Amma’s-boy and _proud of it,”_ First voice retorted to the accusation as Lambert came up on the two pairs, standing off to the side, just out of line of sight and if they weren’t paying attention then they would miss him standing with his arms crossed and waiting. He wanted to see how long it was before they noticed he was there. 

“Miska, pick up your sword tip when you swing it like that or you’ll take out your own fucking toes,” Lambert said after a few moments of the kids not noticing him. Four pairs of startled eyes, not yet yellow from the trials, turned to him as they froze. He raised an eyebrow at them, “Did I tell you to _stop?”_

“No, Lambert. Sorry, Lambert,” Came the chorus from the quartet and he rolled his eyes as they adjusted their stances and got back to sparring.

He glanced at the position of the sun in the sky. It probably hadn’t been _quite_ an hour yet but… Well, the kids were right about one thing: you never wanted to incur “Amma’s” wrath. Lambert was still recovering from Ashwood's lecture about hydration.

“Alright, you little shits, take a break and get some water.” He watched as they all put their training swords on the racks by the wall and headed over to the barrels of fresh water. A fond smile threatened to tug at the corners of Lambert’s mouth, but he refused it. He could be soft about these kids later when he wasn’t in charge of them. There was an itching under his skin and he _needed_ to move around, to hit something, as he remembered that Aiden wouldn’t be in their room tonight for him to talk about how _proud_ he was of these kids, how far they were coming along and how well they were doing. How sure he was that there was going to be a good number of them ready for Selection next year, after three years of waiting. 

He hates that Aiden leaves, but he knows it’s necessary, knows that he will come back. He _has_ to come back. If he died out on the Path, Lambert would _kill_ him. Did that make much sense? No but Lambert had always known love didn’t make a whole lot of sense. 

After ruminating on the absence of his partner, one of two people the universe saw fit to saddle him with, Lambert sighed, drawing his face into a deeper frown as he called the initiates back from the water, “Alright, fuckers. Get your asses back in pairs, we’re going over the Manticore forms now.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Mieczyk settle into Kaer Morhen, make friends and Jaskier gets invited to join Ashwood and Yennefer for drinks and gossip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is alternately titled, in my head "Wait, _what?"_. If I ever get around to doing actual chapter names for this fic, that's what this one will be called.
> 
> Look! I can do Non Angst! sort of!! There's like... smidgens of it scattered throughout shhh don't pay it any mind it's fine, it's fine.
> 
> In an unrelated note, I finished outlining to the end of Spearwort so theoretically I'll one day finish this. Maybe. We'll see lol.

Jaskier was pleased; Mieczyk took to the stables like he’d been born in them. Which wasn’t a real surprise as he’d always loved the stables at hom– at the estate. Jaskier wanted his friend to be happy, even trapped in this keep in the mountains. Ashwood had shown them they could be happy here despite that, and maybe… maybe they were. 

Sure they were prisoners of the keep, and the Great Wolf hadn’t yet called on Jaskier to perform for the court which was causing Jaskier some background anxiety but, well, the joy on Mieczyk’s face when he talked about the horses and animals in the barn and stables when he came back from them was worth that.

It became nearly a daily occurrence that Geralt would stop by Jaskier and Mieczyk’s room in the morning—at least on days where there weren’t council meetings, anyway—and he would walk Mieczyk to the stables, the two chatting in their own very strange way about the horses and animals, what had happened in the night if anything, what their plans were for each of them, the moods of the animals, and such. Jaskier understood none of it, but he often accompanied them for a chance to leave their room. And it came with the added benefit of seeing Geralt more comfortable, learning more about the absolutely gorgeous man who had, as Ashwood had described, just the sweetest disposition underneath it all. Jaskier wasn’t sure he’d ever seen it, but certainly spending more time around the Witcher would allow him to see it _eventually._

Mieczyk’s time in the barn with Geralt quickly became “Mieczyk’s time in the barn and then around the keep, and then settled into the kitchen in the evenings for supper and drinks with Geralt” so that the two could continue their long discussions of the best horse husbandry and care techniques. Jaskier had only accompanied them all the way to the kitchens _once_ and vowed quickly to never do so again. He loved his friend, and he was coming to enjoy the company of the intimidating Witcher, but the two had become comfortable with one another quicker than Jaskier could probably ever hope to be. Mieczyk and Geralt had devolved into a great shouting match, their raised voices talking over one another as they, from what Jaskier could gather, essentially agreed with one another.

Mieczyk _loved_ it. Geralt was smart, knowledgeable, kind, hilarious, and had good taste in alcohol. The two would camp out at one of the tables in the kitchen when Helga, the head of the kitchen staff, would let them. Which was pretty much always, he found, and he didn’t want to question it. She always had some warm rolls fresh out of the oven for them when they would arrive and settle down at the table, and she came over to fuss at them if she felt like they weren’t eating enough, but she generally left them be, to shout at one another about best practices in horse handling. Because of his growing friendship—because prisoner or not, that’s what this was, he decided—with Geralt, Mieczyk learned a _lot_ about the way Witchers trained their horses. 

The horses were even-tempered, cool-headed animals who knew a variety of verbal and nonverbal commands in order to keep them safe. They were bred large to accommodate the enormous men and their bulky gear over the long journeys they made across the continent, with temperaments to best handle the rigors of the Witcher’s Path and the various monsters that they would encounter on it. 

Though it had taken a long time for Mieczyk to get used to the ground ties that the horses were trained to, Witchers just dropped the reins to their mounts any old where and wandered off, the horses just standing in place until they came back.

Mieczyk was _fascinated._ He had only known the way noblemen trained horses and this method seemed very practical for the purposes that the horses were used for. Not a single animal in there was a trophy animal alone, meant for beauty over function, though that didn’t stop them from being some of the most gorgeous horses Mieczyk had ever seen. 

And the best part of being friends with Geralt? He got a break from the neverending political bullshit that Jaskier and Ashwood always discussed.

Speaking of which…

“How _do_ you know all of this stuff, Jaskier?” Ashwood asked, interrupting their discussion of the most recent political snag that had hit the councilroom and had mired it for the past week. “Far be it from me to question anyone’s knowledge base but your insight has eased _so much_ tension in the council room so far, I’d love to know where you learned it all.” The two leaned on the battlements that overlooked the training grounds.

Jaskier flushed brightly at the compliment. “I– I mean I _am_ the son of a Viscount,” he said, as though this were something Ashwood should have known. “I might not have been in line for the title but I still learned things from him. Plus I spent several winters in various courts and noble houses across the continent as a bard.”

Ashwood blinked at Jaskier blankly and Jaskier wondered if maybe he and Mieczyk had failed to let the man know in all this time _where_ they came from. “Wait. What?”

“I’m…the son of a Viscount?” Jaskier repeated.

Ashwood made an impressed face, “Huh. That definitely explains it. Good to know though.”

* * *

“Look, I’ve been discussing this with Jaskier and he thinks that we should do it the way I described,” Ashwood explained the thoughts he and Jaskier had been going over regarding the matter before the council. Even seven days later, the knowledge of Jaskier’s background still caused him to reel a little so he tried not to think about it too much as he went over the broad strokes of what the other man had suggested.

Vesemir listened intently as Ashwood went over the finer points—it had sounded a lot more coherent when Jaskier had gone into it, which was always the case and somehow always surprising because Jaskier was possibly the least coherent person Ashwood had ever spoken to when he wasn’t focused on the topic at hand. But maybe it was more that Ashwood was a little intimidated by the Witcher’s undivided attention.

“That seems…incredibly logical,” Yennefer mused, leaning her hip on the table before them where all of the correspondence and maps were laid out.

“The boy is smart,” Vesemir agreed.

Ashwood nodded, “Yeah. The ‘boy’ is the son of a Viscount.”

The council room went silent. Eskel spoke first, “Wait, _what?”_

“That’s what _I_ said!” Ashwood gestured in agreement, wide arm motions risking the safety of the papers and markers spread over the map of the continent, “The Viscount de Lettenhove of Redania is his father, apparently.”

“Did…did you not know this?” Geralt asks, unsure for a moment, glancing at Ashwood. The only outward signs that he _was_ unsure were the slight crinkle in his brow and the downturn of his lips that also made him look like he was furious. Ashwood caught the pauses between his words that belied his uncertainty, however, and blinked widely at him.

“How did _you_ know?” Lambert asked, looking at his brother in disbelief. 

“Mieczyk.”

Ashwood made a considering noise as he nodded his head again, looking back down at the table before his gaze shot back up, “Wait, _what?”_

“He was the stablehand at the Lettenhove Estate? The Viscount took him in when his…hedgewitch? She wasn’t his mother but he… hasn’t said more than that. When she was brought in as house sorceress, he started hanging out in the stables and…Have they not told you this?” 

Jaskier had mentioned Mieczyk had been a stablehand but he’d failed to mention it was _for his father._ Ashwood made a surprised noise in his throat, before bringing the conversation back around, “So…The Viscount de Lettenhove let his son become a bard and then let his bard travel all the way to Kaedwen to be the official bard of Kaer Morhen?”

Vesemir scratched at his chin, “Seems like. Probably not his smartest move, considering the state those boys were in when they got here. I can’t imagine he approved of that.” The Great Wolf’s face grew dark for a moment, as he considered the implication of the Viscount _knowing_ what his boys would show up like.

The council room went quiet as everyone stewed over the memory, Ashwood and Triss most of all as they had actually seen how bad it _truly_ had been, though the others had been informed of the broad strokes after Jaskier and Mieczyk had been taken care of properly.

“They’re doing better now,” Lambert grumbled, though his voice ticked up a bit at the end, indicating that it was more of a question that he probably wanted it to be.

“Much,” Ashwood assured him. “Jaskier has his full voice back—sings sometimes when we’re playing cards. He’s got an upper range limit that’s apparently still new to him so it’s not perfect but considering the state his throat was in, I’m impressed he can speak at all.”

“Mieczyk is very good with the horses,” Geralt stated, firmly. That was all the information he gave on the subject but it was apparently enough as Vesemir nodded.

“Good.” And that was that on that. They moved on to further matters, running into no further snags through the whole meeting.

At the end, Ashwood collected his things and began to leave but Yennefer grabbed his arm before he could get far.

“Ashwood, are we still on for tonight?” She asked, referring to their twice-weekly sessions of drinking wine and bitching about things until the wee hours of the morning.

“As long as no emergencies come up, as usual,” He replied with a grin. She returned it.

“Excellent. I want you to bring the bard,” She instructed, linking her arm with his as they exited the room, “I want to meet the man who keeps this council room from devolving into bickering and chaos from afar.”

Ashwood chuckled, walking her back to her rooms, “I’ll see if he’s interested. Do you still have that bottle of Sansretour pinot noir unopened? I wanted to try it, I’ve heard good things.”

* * *

“Wait, _what?”_ Jaskier asked, cocking his head to the side as he contemplated what Ashwood had said.

“Would you like to join me and Yennefer tonight for wine? Mostly we just sit and drink expensive wine and bitch about things. If you’d be interested, she says she’d like to meet you.” Ashwood repeated.

“That’s what I thought you said. I…She wants to _meet me?_ But _why?”_ Jaskier looked confused.

“To quote her: ‘I want to meet the man who keeps this council room from devolving into bickering and chaos from afar,’” Ashwood put on his best falsetto to imitate Yennefer’s voice—deliberately poorly, which Jaskier would appreciate once he met the woman properly. “She’s impressed and wants to say hello. Of the entire council I think she’s the only one you haven’t met yet.”

“Well…I mean, loathe of me to deny a lady’s invitation!” Jaskier replied after a moment, slightly breathlessly, “I…It wasn’t like I had a lot going on tonight, anyway. Mieczyk will likely be with Geralt until late again.” He shrugged, “So yes, I’d…I’m happy to join you both.” He grinned brightly.

“Don’t get too excited, loverboy. Yennefer is _terrifying,”_ Ashwood laughed. Jaskier paled a little before the mage continued, “She’s good people, though. I mean, terrifying, yes, but she wouldn’t be on the council if Vesemir didn’t trust her judgement and she seems to be a reasonable person. I’ve only been doing these wine nights with her since about a month or so before you arrived, but it’s not been bad. Quite enjoyable, really. Plus, it’s _very_ good wine.”

“Well, I survived Witchers. What’s a terrifying sorceress on top of that, hm?”

* * *

Yennefer was, as Ashwood had described to Jaskier, _very_ intimidating. She was not very tall—tiny, in fact, shorter than his own mother if he really thought about it—but she seemed somehow taller than even the tallest of Witchers Jaskier had come in contact with so far, her bearing that of a powerful, untamable thing.

She was also _breathtakingly_ gorgeous. Long black hair curled around her shoulders in a smooth, shiny tumble, brushing against her medium-brown skin. Large, expressive violet eyes peered up at him, kohl-lined and judgemental as she assessed the man before her.

Jaskier had never felt so small and insignificant in his entire life. Which was saying something considering how he felt when they arrived at Kaer Morhen.

Yennefer sniffed, a smirk falling on her red-painted lips as she gestured toward the large sitting room, welcoming them in, “Pleasure to finally meet you, Bard.”

“And to you as well, Lady Yennefer,” Jaskier bowed deeply. He had been running her name through his head since Ashwood had invited him along so he wouldn’t fuck it up. He experienced a brief moment of panic as she turned and raises an eyebrow at him, that maybe he _did_ mess up her name. But Ashwood was rolling his eyes and pushing through, unlooping the bag he always wore from his shoulder.

Ashwood was wearing _much_ nicer clothes than normal and Jaskier felt decidedly underdressed next to these two very impressive, very attractive mages. He hadn’t even picked out this doublet and trousers! They weren’t even _his!_ They were just what he wore _every day_ because it was all he had. Had Jaskier been wearing his own clothes he might have been able to pass muster, but instead he wore an ill-fitting suit in colors that didn’t compliment his complexion, grabbed at random from the caravan that had accompanied them up the mountain and that he had worn for five months straight.

Yennefer draped herself gracefully across a long fainting couch, her long black dress on display over the plush seat, showing only the suggestion of her legs under the silk skirt—there was a lot of fabric but the style itself was much closer-fitting than was popular with the ladies of courts these days. Yennefer’s skirt was a generous ( _very_ generous) kirtle, rather than the overdress and voluminous skirts that noblewomen elsewhere appreciated. The neckline of Yennefer’s dress was a sharp-angled square that showed an ample amount of her shoulders and decolletage. 

Jaskier flushed and looked away—despite his many dalliances with men, women and otherwise across the continent, his mother had not raised him to be _crude_ and he refused to ogle. Her long sleeves were worn close to the skin from the neckline to Yennefer’s delicate wrists, which he now saw in motion, reaching for the goblet on the table beside her chair.

Ashwood, for his part, seemed above the theatrics, though his hair was worn loose and long around his shoulders, a hint of something sparkled on his eyelids as he crossed the room in the candlelight from the various sconces. Jaskier had caught a glimpse of it when Ashwood had picked him up mere minutes earlier, but had been distracted immediately from this by the deep green tunic that fastened high on the neck down to his mid-thigh in a row of gold-thread frog closures. Close-fitting breeches in an even darker green, almost black, clung to Ashwood’s long legs down to the shiny black boots he wore, a much more sleek style than the brown ones he wore for working in the barn and gardens (and for _everything else_ as well, from what Jaskier could tell). The tunic was long-sleeved and embellished with golden threads that shimmered—much like whatever had been spread on his eyelids—in the candlelight. 

Ashwood settled into a low-backed chair, flopping back with the same sort of effortless grace that Jaskier was pretty sure all mages had now. For fucks sake, he’d seen this man trip over the threshold to Jaskier and Mieczyk’s room at least thrice a week. How the _fuck_ did he go from personable, awkward, funny Ashwood to…to… _whoever the fuck this was?_

Jaskier’s heart wasn’t going to be able to take being with these two very gorgeous people all night long. He could only hope he wouldn’t drink too much wine and thus make an ass of himself. Awkwardly placing himself on an ottoman, Jaskier hoped that the lack of back support would keep him more aware of himself and also keep him from doing anything foolish. 

Yennefer watched him with bright eyes like a hawk, silently amused as he situated to get as comfortable as possible. “I do have _chairs,_ you know, little bardling,” She said, her voice dark and teasing and Jaskier cleared his throat.

“And I chose this lovely ottoman,” He patted it awkwardly. “It’s…comfortable?” He knew it came out like a question but she didn’t call him out on it other than give him a dangerous sort of smile at him, before bringing her goblet to her lips to drink.

“Oh, _Yenna,_ you’re the _worst_ hostess,” Ashwood sighed from his seat, the huff of air blowing his hair up away from his face for a moment. “And where is our wine?”

“In the bottle. Over there,” She gestured with a long, fine-boned finger and Ashwood rolled his eyes. 

“Not to worry, I shall get us both a cup, Ashwood,” Jaskier said, grateful to have something to do with the nervous energy that pulsed through him. He carefully poured two goblets of wine, then turned to Yennefer, “And are you sufficiently topped off, my dear? Or would you like me to do the honors?”

“Oh you’ve brought me a _gentleman,_ Ashwood! De _lightful.”_ Her teeth were sharp in her wolfish grin and Jaskier flushed pink.

“I told you earlier today he’s the son of a Viscount. Did you not believe me?” Ashwood teased.

“Oh I believed you, I just didn’t anticipate such a sweet one. No, darling, I am quite well on my own,” Yennefer dismissed Jaskier’s offer with a wave of her hand and he nodded, setting the bottle down on the table before grabbing his and Ashwood’s glass. He passed Ashwood’s to him on his way back to his seat, before tucking himself onto the ottoman once more.

Alright, perhaps it wasn’t the smartest place to sit with a full glass of wine, but Jaskier had made stupider decisions in his life. As long as he didn’t spill he’d be fine.

Jaskier positioned himself so that he had a good view of both mages. “Well? Ashwood said there would be wine _and_ bitching.”

Ashwood chuckled into his goblet as he drank, “I did, didn’t I?” He hummed, making a face, “Oh, I was _lied_ to about this wine. This is _terrible._ Yenna, why didn’t you say?”

“It’s _wine._ I wish to be drunk and bitch, I don’t give a shit what the wine tastes like. Besides, now you have something to bitch about that isn’t _inflated egos.”_ She was grinning as she spoke and something in her tone was playful and teasing even as Ashwood scowled at her.

Oh _ho!_ Jaskier was _always_ down for a good story, _especially_ one that made people have sour faces like that. He shifted on his seat, leaning forward as he, too, took a draught of his wine. Ashwood was right, it was shit. Expensive, but shit. “Oh? This sounds like a story, and I do _love_ stories.”

Yennefer was like a cat with a mouse, not yet satisfied but definitely enjoying herself, “Oh? You haven’t told him yet Ashwood? Well let me rectify this!” She sat up a little as Ashwood appeared to try to melt into his seat. Jaskier could tell this was going to be _juicy_ whatever it is. 

* * *

The incident went like this:

_Ashwood entered the council room in a whirlwind of barn dust and hay. His hair was untidily thrown back into a bun on the back of his head and his clothes were covered in dirt and suspiciously stained._

_“Hello, sorry,” He said, breathless and harried as he swung his bag off his shoulder, “the cows got into some bad hay. I’ll just, uh…” He glanced around and dragged one of the chairs from the table into the corner, “sit in the corner in case some of this… **isn’t** mud.”_

_Yennefer tracked the movement of the new mage with amusement. This was by far not the first time he had come in straight from the barn or the gardens, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, she was sure. She also noted with further delight the way Eskel watched—surreptitiously of course, and not entirely unlike a wolf tracking a rabbit in the bush. The witch watched a flush rise to Eskel’s cheeks as he drew his gaze away. She wondered, if she was able to get Ashwood more dressed up, what Eskel’s reaction would be **then?**_

_As Ashwood settled, Vesemir finally started in on the business of the day: one of the reconnaissance groups had reported contentious activity on the border of Sodden and Cintra._

_Sodden had recently been liberated from its rather tyrannical leader but Cintra had clearly not seen it that way, Calanthe taking offense to Vesemir’s presence anywhere close to her own country. It wasn’t bad, yet, and Vesemir wanted to nip it in the bud._

_They had been discussing how to handle this for a week now, and Eskel finally had the perfect plan, which he provided to the group, “We send in a group, not yearlings but we want them to be younger, stronger than some of the more experienced men. Closer to Lambert’s year group, maybe as young as Mordred and Drummond. They’ll be intimidating enough to scare Calanthe’s men, and if we get a few silver tongues in there maybe we can work out a peaceful border with Cintra.”_

_It definitely sounded good, but at the mention of sending such a small group, Ashwood interrupted, “No, what? We can’t do that, it would be **murder.”**_

_”What do you mean? It’s foolproof. Witchers cut an intimidating figure, they’d be able to handle it if the small amount of troops got up in arms about it, they’re strong enough.” Eskel shot back, defensively crossing his arms as he glared across the table._

_"Calanthe’s not stupid, this isn’t right. The numbers Jad’s group sent back don’t make any sense. If the information we have on the mood there is correct, Calanthe wouldn’t send so few men. She’s been uncomfortable with our presence in Sodden since before I got here,” It was the first time Ashwood had included himself as part of the Great Wolf’s company since he arrived eight months ago, and not just Kaedweni by birth. Yennefer raised her eyebrows as he continued. “She’s **ruthless** —or have you forgotten the **genocide** she’s committed? And if she wants us gone, she’s going to do a lot more than try to scare us with a handful of troops. There is clearly something more going on here.”_

_”That’s ridiculous. Jad’s always given us good intel. There’s no reason for him to lie about her numbers.” Eskel retorted with a scoff, “It’s a fine plan. Even if she’s going to attack, our men are going to be able to take care of it.”_

_"You’re not **listening** to me. Calanthe is planning something. I don’t know if she’s fooled Jad or if he’s got a bug up his ass but this shit is going to **kill** our men. Mordred and Drummond barely count as full Witchers, you’re **not** sending their year to their deaths. I won’t let you.” Ashwood was fully glaring at Eskel now, and Yennefer was impressed, considering how shy and soft spoken the man normally was, how intimidated he’d been when he’d arrived. He had approached the table in his anger, and was leaning forward on it across from Eskel._

_"All I’m hearing is someone who wants to coddle the younger Witchers like children!” Eskel snapped with a scoff. “We train them hard for the Path, this would be **nothing.”**_

_"What if he’s got a point, Esk? You think we could maybe check it out first before we send our boys in?” Lambert asked, stepping to Ashwood’s side. Eskel now braced himself on the table as well as they faced off. Ashwood glanced to Lambert, relieved that **someone** was on his side._

_Eskel bristled, “Really? Shit, ‘Bert, you’re getting soft in your old age—wouldn’t you agree our men are trained well enough to handle something as simple as this?”_

_Lambert glared at him, “What are you trying to say? Yeah, they are, **if it’s that simple.** But Ashwood’s got a point. What if it’s not? What’s the harm in checking?”_

_"It’s not necessary! Jad is trustworthy, and you said it yourself, Ashwood, Calanthe's not stupid. Why would she launch an attack from there? There’s no point!”_

_Ashwood’s breath escaped him like a snarl, “It’s a fucking **ambush** you–! Can’t you see? She’s either disguising her numbers or Jad is working with her but she’s trying to lure us to do **exactly** what you’re proposing so she can take out our men in manageable numbers. Sending men, even our most experienced ones, would be **wholesale slaughter.** She’s done it before, you **know** this. You can’t be that stupid!”_

_Eskel has never been spoken to by someone like this, certainly not by someone who regularly turns up to council meetings with herb-stained fingers, mud-caked boots, and—today specifically—clothes that smelled a bit more like cow dung than normal. How dare this fancy farmer try to explain battle tactics to **him?**_

_They continued in circles for nearly an hour, going round and round. Yennefer and Triss tried their best to mediate the rising voices to no avail. Ashwood and Eskel were shouting back and forth, Lambert and Geralt having joined each side respectively. Vesemir tried to butt in a few times, but Eskel assumed he was taking Ashwood’s side and Ashwood knew he wasn’t, which pissed Ashwood off more as Eskel got pissed off. It was a **nightmare.**_

_Eventually Eskel rolled his eyes, his tone patronizing in a way Yennefer would have associated with her mentor at Aretuza, “And what experience do you have? How many battles have you planned? How many strategies have you made?”_

_Ashwood slammed his hand down on the table, effectively silencing the bickering as he stated firmly but in a steady, even voice, just at normal speaking volume, “I made it clear when I took this position that I would **not** be a token, and that **includes** not catering to the **inflated egos** of certain members of this council!” He looked directly at Eskel as he said this, and the whole room went dead silent._

_Eskel seethed. Him? Have an inflated ego? Had the mage gone **mad?**_

_Lambert snorted, attempting to contain his laughter at the look on Eskel’s face. The mage had just called the most even-tempered, humble Witcher on the Continent **big-headed.** And the best part was that he wasn’t **wrong.** Eskel had been more than stubborn for this, all for his fucking pride._

_Geralt stood warily by Eskel’s side. Ashwood **did** have good points, and maybe it would be worth it to do more research into the situation in Sodden before they made any actionable decisions. But Eskel looked so **angry** and Geralt worried that maybe he would hurt Ashwood. Or, based on the look on Ashwood’s face, that **Ashwood** would hurt Eskel. Oh dear._

_Vesemir broke the tension, now able to get a word in edgewise with the silence that had descended over the room, “How much would it cost us to actually check on the information? Ashwood’s made a point, Jad could have been fooled by Calanthe. Is there any way we can verify what’s going on without losing people?”_

_Ashwood, Triss and Yennefer discussed ways they would be able to double check Jad’s information, to make sure they weren’t sending their men into a death trap. With a plan decided on, they would begin to execute it. Eskel stormed out before they had even begun to discuss their options, unwilling to be there for this **useless waste of time.**_

_It was two days later that they learned through their additional reconnaissance that there was in fact an ambush planned by Calanthe—the bulk of her forces had been but a few days away by horseback, close enough to arrive by the time the Witchers would have, with their limited numbers to intimidate not to fight. They would have been **annihilated** and it was a strange sigh of relief to know that they avoided this. The council room was silent with the news._

_Eskel left, anger infusing every muscle in his body. Vesemir commended Ashwood for catching the nearly disastrous mistake before it could happen. Jad was called back and received a dressing down and reminder to be more aware of the potential situation when doing reconnaissance, specifically by Lambert who tears into him about putting the lives of other Witchers in danger._

* * *

When she finished, Yennefer leaned back in her seat, “Honestly, Ashwood darling, I don’t know why you’re both still hung up on it. It’s been months now. Not that I’m not proud of the way you handled things, but goodness. It’s a bit much at this point, isn’t it?”

Jaskier shook his head, “I can’t believe it didn’t occur to anyone to verify first _before_ it got to that point! What’s the harm in checking?” He drained the last of his wine, the rest having been emptied during the course of Yennefer’s story. “You said the fight was an _hour?”_

Yennefer nodded, emphatically, “It _was._ An _hour_ of the two of them talking in circles before Ashwood finally called him out on his pigheadedness.”

“Pigheaded? I thought you said he called Eskel _big_ headed!” Jaskier teased.

Ashwood sank further into his seat—Jaskier wasn’t sure how much further he could go, considering he’d been slowly attempting to have the piece of furniture swallow him since before Yennefer had started the tale. He mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like, “I said he had an _inflated ego,”_ before he sat up a little bit and continued in a more audible tone, “In my defense, we really just needed to make a decision and then he started talking in this…” He waved his hand absently in front of him to find the right descriptor, _“Tissaia_ -tone and I just sort of lost it”

“Oh? How do you know Tissaia?” Yennefer asked and Jaskier didn’t know who this Tissy-person was but guessed probably another Mage they both knew. Ashwood pointedly did not look at Yennefer as he sipped his drink with a shrug. Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Well, Ashwood was in the right and it's all resolved so I don't see what the issue is with the whole thing between you two. Is he really that big of a sourpuss? I may have miscalculated how terrifying these Witchers truly are.” Jaskier said, frowning.

“Oh no, they're delightfully terrifying, but also only if you're actively harming people. Otherwise they're basically housepets with thumbs. Except Geralt. He's a horse,” Yennefer explained.

That checked out and Jaskier nodded, “Well, I certainly understand why Mieczyk took to Geralt so quickly, now, I suppose. Who is that…Tesselation-a person?” Ashwood and Yennefer blinked at him blankly and he instantly knew he got the name wrong but continued forward anyway, “Does she work for the Great Wolf as well?”

Ashwood and Yennefer both snorted in derision at the exact same time. Jaskier nodded again, like that explained it. It kind of did.

“That sounds like a _'_ _no,’_ then,” Jaskier chuckled, “Well, seems like I wouldn't want to get to know her anyway, if she's lost the favor of both of you.”

Ashwood shook his head, sitting up some more before deciding to just stand and stretch, going over to the small table with the wine, “I wouldn't, in all honesty, call anyone's ego inflated compared to her's,” he explained. Yennefer raised her eyebrows as she stared into the bottom of her goblet, before also rising languidly from her lounge to join Ashwood by the wine. The bottle empty, they opened a new one as Ashwood continued, “and to answer your question, Yennefer, I made it clear I wouldn't be a court mage. Tissaia was the one who tried to convince me otherwise. Obviously it didn't work.”

Yennefer’s laugh sounded a bit like a high-pitched goose, a squawk of amusement, _"Obviously.”_ She shook her head as their glasses were refilled. 

Jaskier also wanted more, but the thought of getting up from his spot to join them, then having to sit back down with another full glass without spilling intimidated him enough to stay in his seat, holding his empty goblet. 

“Good for you,” Yennefer added to Ashwood, “she’s a bitch.” Her voice had gained an edge of bitterness to it as she spoke of this Tassely person, but it dropped back into an amused one as she returned to the topic of the story, “And it’s less that Eskel’s ego was inflated and more that he needs to learn to listen to other opinions, even if the rest of the room agrees with him. _All_ of us thought it was an airtight plan, none of us considered that it wouldn’t work.” She addressed Jaskier, “Ashwood had additional information we didn’t know about, and it saved lives. Eskel couldn’t understand why he was wrong and has been sore about it ever since.”

Jaskier’s brow creased as he considered the new information, “Well…I might have been fooled, too. If the situation had been what he’d seen, what you all had seen, it sounds like it _would_ have been a good plan.”

“That’s true,” Yennefer agreed as Ashwood also reclaimed his seat, less melted into the upholstery than before. _”And_ Eskel can pull his head out of his ass any time he likes, but he chooses not to. Apparently being upset is more fun?” She shook her head with a derisive snort, “I don’t know, he’s a Witcher, darling. They’re all a little off in the head in some way or another. I’m partial to believing it to be the effect of the Trials at this point, honestly. Trauma that young doesn’t do anyone good.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what trials she’s referring to, but he does know about trauma from a young age, though not his own, obviously. Though, perhaps he _is_ a bit traumatized from the journey up here and it’s likely done _something_ to his brain. No, he thinks of Mieczyk—a younger Mieczyk, small and scared as he arrived at the Lettenhove Estate. Flinching at loud noises, cowering back from Friedrick when he shouted in anger, hiding in the corner the one and only time Jaskier’s father had ever raised his voice around the boy. 

Ashwood and Yennefer have both gone silent as well, sipping their drinks and Jaskier took the nervous energy that flooded him once more to stand and refill his cup finally.

His motion broke the tension and Ashwood shook his head, “Anyway. Eskel has decided that he hates me, which…” There was something in his voice at the statement that Jaskier didn’t know how to describe but Ashwood continued on like he didn’t just skip the end of his thought, “People didn’t die and that’s all I care about.”

Jaskier knew people, knew how to read them and understand the things they said and the things they _didn’t_ say. And that sounded like Ashwood was lying. He wasn’t sure he’d heard Ashwood _lie_ before. He leaned against the table with his full glass of wine, remaining standing instead of heading back to his seat. What on earth would cause Ashwood to feel the need to _lie_ about Eskel and how he felt? 

“Other interesting things _have_ to have happened by now. There _must_ be something else we can discuss,” Ashwood finished, pulling a face before drinking deeply of his wine again.

“My dear, you _always_ bring it up. I figured you wanted the opening early on.” Yennefer shrugged, before she turned her attention to Jaskier, “Now, darling, how are you and your companion enjoying Kaer Morhen?”

Jaskier was unable to answer her for a moment because he was distracted by the fact that Ashwood had been replaced by a large— _very_ large—black cat. He was pretty sure he had seen one in a book, called a panther or something. _Mage,_ he reminded himself before refocusing on Yennefer, “I’m sorry, what was the question, Lady Yennefer? I missed it.”

She smiled, not unkindly though it seemed all of her expressions were just a little on the sharp side, and her violet eyes twinkled a little in amusement, “Not at all, dear. I merely wanted to know how you were finding Kaer Morhen. Is it to your liking?”

Jaskier pondered the question for a moment, glancing up across the room to the large landscape painting situated on the other end. It was of a night sky, the moon full and the stars spilled out across the blanket of black as if they were snowflakes just beginning to dust the ground. The absent thought of what winters must be like so far north and so high into the mountains struck him for a moment. “Well, it’s certainly different from what I imagined. I don’t believe I’ve ever considered captivity ever being quite so nice.” He shrugged.

Yennefer’s face was carefully neutral, as was her voice as she responded, “I see. And if you were to…say, judge the quality of things from the standpoint of…perhaps a voluntary situation, how would you describe the keep?”

Jaskier hummed and swirled his wine in his goblet, the liquid sticking to the edge pleasantly. This bottle was _far_ better than the first, and he drank a small sip before answering the sorceress, “Oh, well. I suppose it _is_ a smidge rustic. Relatively homey, however. Everyone seems to like it here.” He shrugged again scratching his chin as he considered, “I think both Mieczyk and I could do with some new clothes, but I understand if that is something that’s out of the question. We didn’t exactly have much when we got here that wasn’t ruined by the journey. And what we’re currently working with is…” he glanced down at his current outfit with a look of distaste, “Well, I would have preferred to show you a better side of me for such an occasion.” He gestured to their own absolutely stunning appearances—well, the memory of Ashwood’s, anyway, considering the man was a _large cat_ now. 

Jaskier laughed as he continued, genuine but court-appropriate, exactly as his mother had taught him “Though there is no way even on my best day I could have competed with _either_ of you. This wouldn’t have been my first choice for a suit, either, but it’s what the guards had in the caravan so I suppose it’s what I must work with.”

Yennefer exchanged an alarmed glance with Ashwood. “I see," she said, her voice tense as if in concern. Which made no sense to Jaskier, but he didn’t know Yennefer and thus couldn’t accurately tell her tone, so perhaps concern wasn’t the word for it. "We can address this _immediately_ of course. I have never been to Lettenhove, so you _must_ forgive me for assuming it to be more rural based on your clothing. It _is_ better than what our dear Ashwood appeared in for his first day, so I simply assumed I had been out of touch with nobility in other countries for long enough to miss what was considered fashionable these days.” She waved her hand dismissively and Jaskier laughed again.

“Oh goodness, no, Lettenhove had extensive stables but our land’s main trade was in textiles. Mostly trading them. My father has contacts across the continent and ran the majority of trade through the ports in Kerrack. It was…a shock he wasn’t asked to provide something like that for the tribute,” Jaskier grimaced and shook his head. “I spent a significant amount of time in cities as a child, and then studied in Oxenfurt. Master of the seven liberal arts. They liked me so much they asked me to teach for a year, and I did. But being a bard should mean _travel,_ so I resigned from being a professor, grabbed my lute and went on my merry way to explore the continent and find stories to sing. I’d just returned to Lettenhove for my brother’s name-day before…well before.” He shrugged.

Yennefer’s face was still very carefully neutral, though a smile tugged at the corners of her lips when he described his past. They returned to their flat position when he wrapped up his rambling, “Other than the clothes, everything else is…acceptable? You aren’t being hurt, or treated poorly by others?”

Jaskier cocked his head to the side, brow furrowed, “No? We don’t exactly get many visitors aside from Ashwood and Triss—I mean, Mieczyk adores Geralt and he does seem to be a…very fine man,” He cleared his throat. Now that he had gotten to see the less intimidating side of the man, to hear Mieczyk speak of him and to spend more time around Geralt, he’s found that the appearances that initially daunted him now were quite attractive, if Jaskier were to be honest. He ran his palm over the back of his trousers absently. “It’s just that his face looks like that,” He demonstrated by drawing his own face into the meanest mug he could, though he has been assured by Mieczyk that it’s a poor imitation.

Yennefer laughed, a more beautiful thing now that they weren’t discussing someone she clearly didn’t like, like that…Tefflon person. (Jaskier really _did_ try to remember names, he swore it.)

“He is a fine man indeed,” she winked at Jaskier. “I am pleased to hear Mieczyk likes his company. He has spoken often of your friend, which is high enough praise in and of itself coming from Geralt, but the fact that he _also_ has stated he enjoys Mieczyk’s company, well. It is good for them both, I think.” 

Jaskier tired of standing and went to occupy the seat that Ashwood vacated, the transformed mage now having begun to pace as a large cat in figure eights around the furniture. Yennefer’s eyes tracked Jaskier as he settled down, and as soon as he was seated comfortably Ashwood approached, laying his great big cat-head in Jaskier’s lap.

The hand Jaskier wasn’t using to hold his wine came up and scrubbed behind a large, rounded ear as though this were one of his father’s hunting dogs rather than his friend who had helped heal himself and Mieczyk in their new, terrifying home and helped it become less terrifying by the day. As soon as he touched the surprisingly soft fur, a low, deep rumble began in Ashwood’s throat, vibrating all the way through Jaskier’s entire body. 

“Oh! Oh that _is_ a clever trick,” Jaskier exclaimed delightedly. Then he paused with a slight grimace, “I…hm. Perhaps lower on my lap, not quite so close to my…” He gently directed Ashwood’s head towards his knee, “Yes, thank you. That was going to get very uncomfortable there if you'd kept that up! You're a delightful man—cat?—man, Ashwood, but I am not interested in being more than friends with you and that rumbling was going to start some very awkward things happening!” 

Ashwood chuffed softly at this, rolling his eyes before closing them and settling in for further rumbles. He was pleasantly tipsy—possibly a bit more than tipsy as that new bottle was quite a bit stronger than the first, and Ashwood had a feeling Yenna refilled his glass magically at least once before they stood to get more as they discussed Tissaia.

_Hm, perhaps the rumbles would make Eskel not hate me?_ Ashwood considered as he leaned into the delightful scratching fingers that dug into the fur around his ear. _No, that’s silly. He wouldn’t know it was me._ He sighed a little sadly.

_Jaskier said “captivity.” But he was **hired** by Vesemir? He’s not being kept here—well, other than by medical reasons. I thought they’d volunteered to come to the keep._ His thoughts continued racing, trying to figure out why Jaskier was under the impression that he and Mieczyk were prisoners rather than guests, if not residents, of Kaer Morhen. He couldn’t piece it together and it bothered him.

Jaskier and Yennefer continued speaking together over his head, occasionally refilling their glasses. Ashwood stopped paying attention, lost in the sensation of the rumbles, memories of his family, thoughts about council and the continued consideration of Jaskier’s stance on his and Mieczyk’s stay in Kaer Morhen.


End file.
